Just Once More
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: This is a story about drug abuse. It is Tim-centered and rather serious about the topic. You have been warned. Already complete will post one chapter per day. There is a sequel to this story called Never Again.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is a multi-chapter Tim-centered story about drug use. It's not a comedy by any means. It's very serious. It's a story I began when I wondered what Tim would be like if he were a drug addict. These thoughts occur to me sometimes. I've done a lot of research for it and I hope I'm accurate. Feel free to point out places where I've screwed up. I'm aware that this is a sensitive subject for some people, but I've tried to do it right and make it convincing.

Set during season 6.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own NCIS. I do not make money from my fanfiction. I am not DPB. I'm just a grad student writing for fun.

* * *

**Just Once More**  
by Enthusiastic Fish

**Chapter 1**

It had been a very long day...very _very_ long, and Tim was so tense by the time he left that even Tony had noticed. Tim could still hear him in his head when he reached his apartment, barely noticing Jethro as he greeted his master.

"_Man, Probie, you need to relax! You're so wound up that you could power a small city!"_

He was right. What with Gibbs in his face about this computer thing and that computer thing and his problems getting used to field work again and readjusting to being at the bottom of the pecking order and a string of intense cases which had generally resulted in _no one_ going home before midnight...Tim was tense. It would take him _hours_ to unwind enough to sleep...and even then...he wouldn't sleep. He'd worry, just like he worried about tests, about getting things done right the first time.

"I have to...I really have to," he whispered to his apartment. "Just one more time." It _would_ be the last time. This was a special case. He needed to relax. He'd never be able to sleep. It had been such roller coaster ride the last few...days...weeks...months. No one would be surprised that he was having a little trouble. He knew that he'd be in trouble if they found out, but they just wouldn't get it. They wouldn't understand. He _needed_ it.

How long _had_ it been? Tim thought back...over days...and weeks...and months...and then shook his head in rejection of the length of time this most recent bout seemed to have lasted. That was impossible. He hadn't been taking it for _that_ long. Had he?

This would be the last time. It would...just for now, he needed it.

He walked to his desk and opened one of the old drawers.

"Just this once. It's a special case," Tim said, subconsciously trying to convince himself more than anything else. Jethro jumped around, barking, wanting attention. Tim paused to pat his head, remembering how worried he'd been when Abby had first forced him to take Jethro home...but it had turned out fine. Tim fed Jethro and rubbed his ears, but his mind wasn't on his pet. He quickly walked back to the desk while Jethro was eating. As he pulled the paraphernalia out, his hands were shaking a little. He clenched them tightly until the shaking eased. He knew he'd be feeling better soon...but before that could happen, he had an unwelcome shock as he examined what he had.

"No, that's not right," he said, still speaking aloud. "I only bought it last week. It was supposed to be enough to last for a month..._more_ than a month...not just a month because I don't need it that much." Giving lie to his words, his hands started shaking again. "It's just because of the case. I've been worried. That's all. Gibbs will be furious if I don't get in tomorrow. I won't be able to think if I can't relax. It's just for now. Once the case is over...I'll stop. I won't need it. It helps me think."

No more self-justification. Tim didn't think anymore. He got out his bag. He remembered the strictures about cleanliness and he always followed them. He was careful. He wasn't a junkie on the street. Carefully, he tied a band around his arm. Then, he filled the syringe...and he barely noticed that it was well beyond the recommended dosage. He only wanted to relax. It wasn't to get high or indulge in psychedelic fantasies. This was just to help him function...and only at extreme times like these.

Tim took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he inserted the needle into his arm and unloaded twice the average 15-mg dose of temazepam into his bloodstream. Carefully, he withdrew the needle, covered the site with a cotton ball, threw the needle into his special trash bag and cleared away the rest of it. He only had enough for one more day.

_That should be enough. I won't need it for much longer. Just for now._

He sat back and waited for the telltale signs that he would be feeling better. After about twenty minutes, all his cares, all his tension seemed to fade away and he smiled with relief, sagging down in his writing chair. Jethro padded over and nuzzled his limp hand.

"What is it, Jethro?"

Jethro whined and nudged him again.

"Don't worry. I feel much better now. No walk tonight. How about a movie? I promise we'll go walking tomorrow...whenever I get back. How does that sound?"

Jethro whined once more but stopped when Tim stood and wandered into the bedroom. He kicked off his shoes and lay down without bothering to change his clothes. Jethro hopped up beside him.

Tim grinned. "I shouldn't let you sleep on my bed but...just this once. Now, what should we watch?"

As he flipped through the channels, a part of Tim was still a little worried, but it wouldn't last long. Soon enough, he'd be so completely relaxed that he'd fall asleep and wake up ready for a new day tomorrow. He patted Jethro.

"Good dog," he said and settled down, first checking his alarm clock to make sure that it would wake him up in the morning. He watched television for a few minutes but felt the inevitable lethargy and smiled at Jethro. "Good night, Jethro. See you in the morning." Tim allowed his eyes to close. He knew he couldn't keep doing this but...

One more time couldn't hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Tim was barely able to drag himself from sleep when his alarm went off that morning. In fact, if Jethro hadn't been there, leaping around and barking in excitement, he might have slept through it, even at full blast. Still, he managed to open his eyes and, after a cold shower, felt much more alert...but there was an edge of lethargy that he hadn't experienced before, blunting some of his reactions. He thought about what could be causing it as he fed Jethro and lavished him with all the attention he hadn't given him the night before.

"Hey, be good for the dog walker, okay? She said that you were much too excited last week and accused me of not taking you out enough myself." He smiled as Jethro wagged his tail, licked his face and then began to eat. "Ingrate," he said, laughing...but even as he laughed, he couldn't help but worry a little bit. Giving Jethro one final pat, he walked over to his desk and opened the drawer to see how much he had left. His heart sank as he looked at the capsules he had left...two of them. He only had two left. He had gone through his supply so quickly that he only had enough left for one more night. Tim swallowed and tried not to think about how badly he'd want to have it.

He let out a shaky breath. "I should be prepared, right, Jethro?"

Jethro looked up briefly from his dish at the sound of his name.

"I mean, what if the case _isn't_ resolved tonight...or tomorrow? What if I get stuck again? Just because it's taking longer than I thought it would...I might..." In the clarity of thought he had at the beginning of the day, it was harder to justify continuing what he knew was not only wrong but illegal. "I could get a prescription from a doctor, you know. It's not like cocaine! I'm using it like it's supposed to be used...to help me calm down and help me sleep. That's how it's supposed to be used." He looked at the pills in his hand and felt a strange desire to take them right now, even though he knew he couldn't because he had to go to work.

After a moment of indecision, he put the two pills in his pocket, rather than back in the drawer. Then, he walked to his computer, sat down, and brought up one of his bookmarked sites. He had accounts at a few different online pharmacies, having managed to fake an ID that would allow him to order what he needed. When he'd first started doing this, he'd mentally described it as cutting out the middle men, i.e. the doctors and pharmacists. He knew what he needed and why he needed it. There was no reason to get them involved.

It took next to no time at all to put in a rush order...for the 30-mg capsules instead of the 15-mg. He remembered now when it was that he had started doubling the dosage. He wondered if he should try a different brand. Perhaps these weren't as high quality, maybe the online stores had changed the chemical composition. It wouldn't surprise him. Prescription drugs were expensive. Well, the 30-mg capsules would do him for now, until he could take the time to figure out what had changed.

He sat back, feeling a vague disquiet as he looked at the confirmation of his...orders. Not one order, but three...from three different sites, so as to eliminate suspicion. He remembered now when this last spate had begun...when Director Shephard died. Had it really been that long? That was over five months of...this. He had started then, just because there was so much going on that he could barely think straight...and then, Vance had come to him with that order to break through those encryptions...and they were so hard, took so much time. He had come home every night afraid that he wouldn't be able to do it, that Gibbs would find out what he was doing...he was afraid of what he'd find out. So...he'd kept taking them because it was easier to work when he'd been able to sleep. Then...then...then...

"It couldn't have been that long, could it, Jethro?" Tim asked, turning his chair around to face the dog. "I haven't been...not for five months, have I?" The math was undeniable, however, and Tim had to admit that he'd been using temazepam for a lot longer than he ever had before...much longer than he had planned. That tore it. "This is the end of it, Jethro. After this case...after this case is done, I'm stopping." He nodded firmly to himself and uneasily closed down his browser...but not before checking to see when the shipments would arrive...tomorrow.

With a sigh, Tim gathered his stuff together and then knelt in front of Jethro.

"You understand, don't you? It's not like I _have_ to do this, but...but it helps me do my job better. I can't let them down."

Jethro barked and licked Tim's face, dragging a smile to his lips.

"Thanks, Jethro. See you tonight!"

Tim gave a final sigh and left the apartment.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"McGee, are you in, yet?" Gibbs barked.

Tim winced before moving his face from behind the monitor. "No, Boss."

"Why not?"

"These encryptions...I've never seen anything like them. I'm trying to..."

"I don't care what you're trying to do, McGee! We need to know what Lt. Nielson was up to...and you're supposed to be good at this."

"I am, Boss...I can do it. It's just that..." Tim began, but to no avail.

"Stay here and work on it. We have a lead." He walked to the elevator, Tony and Ziva trailing behind.

"You can do it, Probie," Tony tossed back over his shoulder as he left. "What's Lt. Nielson got that you don't? At least you're still breathing." He grinned and gave a thumbs up...which Tim did not return...before getting onto the elevator.

Ziva gave Tony a look when the doors closed, a look which he reluctantly acknowledged.

"Boss?" he began.

"What, DiNozzo?"

"Don't you think that you're being a little hard on McGee?" Tony almost winced as he said it. That sounded way too caring.

"Meaning, what?"

"Meaning," Ziva jumped in, "that he is working very hard, that he is trying his best but...well, he is..."

"He's not getting the job done, Ziva," Gibbs growled. "I told him he'd be on his own with this one and he said he could do it." He paused. "And don't think I can't see the looks you two are giving me."

"I just think that he maybe needs more time, Boss. He hasn't been looking very good for the last few days...maybe he's sick but still coming because he _knows_ he needs to finish."

"McGee has been the first one here and the last to leave the entire week, Gibbs," Ziva added. "It is not as if he is hacking off."

Tony gave her a _look_.

"Not the right word?"

"I don't think so...unless you think McGee is liable to start cutting off people's limbs. I think you mean _slacking_ off."

"Very well."

The doors opened and Gibbs stalked off the elevator. He'd been in a foul mood the longer this case went unsolved.

"The answers are all on that stupid computer," he said. "If McGee can't get in, we'll be stuck...and I don't like being stuck. Got it?"

"Yeah, Boss," Tony said and got in the car, but he couldn't help thinking that this wasn't going to be doing Tim any favors.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"What _does_ Lt. Nielson have that I don't?" Tim said softly. He leaned forward and began to massage his temples, trying to ward off the throbbing headache that had developed. He just couldn't seem to focus anymore. It was four in the afternoon and he was losing it. Another couple of hours and he'd have to start hiding the shaking. It was happening earlier and earlier...and for the millionth time that day, he was tempted to take the pills. It didn't matter that he didn't have any syringes. He could take the pills and let them work in the normal fashion. It would take longer, but he could do it...but then, he wouldn't have any for tonight...and he just wasn't making it. This was nothing like the stuff he'd done for Vance in Cybercrimes, but he just couldn't seem to get in. He felt a wave of frustration and it left him wanting to throw something...something...

Tim took a deep breath and let it out slowly trying to calm himself down, to collect himself and get to work.

"I can do this. I can _do_ this," he said, his voice tight with frustration. He started typing again, looking for clues. It would have been nice to have Abby's help, but she was completely swamped and he didn't have the heart to ask her. Instead, he kept trying.

...and trying...

...and trying...

After two more hours, when Tony, Ziva and Gibbs returned, he was on the verge of punching his monitor. Nothing was working. Everything he had tried had failed. He saw the doors open, and he knew that he couldn't tolerate hearing Gibbs ask him if he was done yet or not; so he stood and darted to the men's room, hoping to avoid it. Once inside, he felt his hands shaking and a wave of intense frustration resulted in him kicking the trash can, sending it flying into the sinks before it wobbled and fell over on its side, spilling its contents all over the floor. Tim almost wanted to cry...either that or scream. He couldn't decide which one would make him feel better.

Probably neither one. He knew what _would_ make him feel better, but he couldn't take them now because then he wouldn't have any for tonight. His headache spiked and he rubbed his temples again. The door opened behind him, and he knew there was no way of pretending that there was nothing wrong. It was all over his face. He could see it in the mirror...and he could see Tony standing behind him, looking very concerned.

"McGee, you all right?"

Just this once, Tim let out his frustration. "I can't do it, Tony!" he shouted and kicked the trash can again. "I _should_, but it's just not working! And I _need_ to. I need to do it, but I can't!" He saw Tony's expression change from concerned to...something more than that. "I'm just so frustrated."

"Yeah, McGee, you're shaking," Tony said, lifting one of his hands. "I don't remember you eating lunch today. Did you?"

"No time...and I wasn't hungry," he said. It was true. He hadn't been hungry at all. His hands stopped shaking as he took another deep breath. "I need to...finish this. I'll be fine once I figure it out." He knelt down, set the garbage can upright and began to pick up the trash littering the floor.

"Hey, I'll get that, McGee."

"No. I've got it. I kicked it," he said, smiling a little. "It'll be my break today."

"I'll help." Tony knelt beside Tim and began to pick up the used paper towels.

Tim wanted to cry. It must be bad if Tony was being that nice. But he just kept picking up the trash until the floor was...relatively clean. Clear of garbage at least.

"I came in here to ask what you wanted for dinner, since it looks like another long night."

"I'm really not hungry, Tony," Tim said as he stood up and began washing his hands.

"Are you sick?"

"No. I'm not."

"You sleeping all right?"

"Yeah. It's just this case. I just need...to get in. Once I do, I'll be fine."

"You said that already," Tony said, joining him at the sink. "You sure that's all it is?"

"Yeah. Get me whatever. I don't care."

Tony grinned. "That's pretty dangerous."

Tim forced himself to smile back. "I like to live dangerously." _In a way..._

Tony walked out to get dinner...and Tim pulled one of the capsules out of his pocket and popped it in his mouth, hoping it would circulate quickly...and hoping it wouldn't ruin him for tonight.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Night settled in on NCIS and yet the agents didn't leave. Tim did eat the sandwich Tony brought him, mostly so that they didn't think he was sick, but he was also pretty sure that Ziva and Tony must have talked about him...based on the looks they were shooting his way. The sandwich did seem to help...along with the capsule. It didn't get rid of all the worry, all the anxiety, and he was still awake, but he was able to focus on the screen for longer periods anyway. Gibbs, thankfully, didn't say anything at all, but he was also giving Tim looks. Tim didn't speak. He just worked, praying that he'd get through.

"Okay, that's enough. Go home," Gibbs said.

Tim didn't even hear him at first. It was just a background of sound.

"What was that, Boss?" Tim asked.

"Go home, McGee."

"But I'm almost through. I can do it, Boss! Really!" Tim was desperate to finish, to have that release of tension, to know that he hadn't failed.

"Then, you can come in tomorrow and get it done."

"Boss, please!" Tim was embarrassed to realize he was nearly begging.

"No, McGee. Go!" Gibbs slapped him on the head and pointed to the elevator.

Tim sighed, knowing he wouldn't win against Gibbs. He wouldn't put it past his boss to stick around just to make sure he didn't come back. Reluctantly, he gathered his things, joined by Tony and Ziva on his walk to the elevator.

"You want to grab a drink, McGee?"

Tim shook his head. "No, thanks. I think I'll get some sleep. I'm tired." That was a lie. He didn't feel in the least sleepy, although he knew he should. He'd taken 15 mg of temazepam. He should be zonked...but he wasn't. He'd go home and take the other capsule and hope for the best.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I'm sure. Thanks though."

"All right. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah. Good night," Tim replied, smiling. He hoped it would be.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Jethro!" Tim said when the dog nearly knocked him over as he opened the door. "Oh, I promised you, didn't I?" He sighed. Even if Jethro was only a dog, he couldn't lie, couldn't build up the anticipation and then yank it away at the last minute. "Let me change; then, we go...but just a short one, okay? I'm not up to more, tonight."

Jethro jumped around and barked eagerly. Tim laughed and felt a bit happier about going.

"Okay, okay!" He changed his clothes and carefully set the remaining capsule on his writing desk. Then, he grabbed Jethro's leash and a ball and went out the door.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim was worried as he and Jethro jogged back from the park. This time, however, it wasn't even due to the computer. He was sure he could get in tomorrow. There was a very promising line he'd been following and he figured another hour or two would crack it. No, what was worrying him was the fact that he had only one capsule left and they weren't working as well as they should. Would he be calm enough to sleep tonight? Knowing that he was close to success should have helped him feel better, but for some reason, he was just as edgy and anxious as he'd been the night before. What was wrong with him? His mind dwelt continuously on that one capsule. By the time he got to his door, he had started to worry about what he'd do if he lost it.

_It shouldn't be mattering this much_, he thought. When Kate died, he'd taken some off and on for nearly a month before he had been able to slide back into normal life. Then, he'd had a few nights of really bad sleep: two or three hours a night, tops, but he had gotten past it. It had been nearly a month solid after Jim Nelson had been killed...followed swiftly by Paula Cassidy. The knowledge that he should have been dead in Jim's place had eaten at him for a long time. He'd only taken the temazepam for a few days after Abby was almost killed by Landon. Guilt made him as tense as anxiety did. But every single time he had stopped when the source of the tension stopped. Every time. Why was it that this time around he could only think about how long it would be until he finally injected the contents of the small capsule into his vein? Until he felt the near-euphoric release from the anxiety that seemed to rule his life right now?

Tim realized with a start that he was standing in his doorway and Jethro was pushing at his legs, trying to get him to move.

"Sorry, Jethro, I'm all over the place tonight. Just give me a few more minutes and I'll be all right. ...I hope." Tim unclipped the leash and began to get out Jethro's dog food, all the while wishing that he was at his writing desk with his little box of syringes...but Jethro came first. Tim filled Jethro's bowl and then noticed that his water was low as well. He sighed and picked it up to refill, noticing that his hands were shaking again.

"Just a bit longer," he said to himself, willing the shaking to ease. "Not much longer." Then, he filled the water dish and replaced it next to the bowl Jethro was currently emptying at a furious pace. Certain that his pet would be occupied for a little while longer, Tim forced himself to walk slowly to the desk. His hands really were shaking as he got out a syringe. For a panic-filled moment, he couldn't remember where he'd put his final pill. He actually dropped it twice before he was able to hold it steady enough to insert the syringe and draw out the liquid inside.

"Calm down, Tim," he said, sternly. "You're being stupid." Still, the shaking only eased. It didn't stop. The tremors continued as he put the strap around his arm and readied the syringe. Carefully, he depressed the plunger just as a violent shudder jerked his hand. The needle pierced the vein and Tim winced, closing his eyes as he realized what he'd just done. With a sigh, he pulled the needle out and raised his arm over his head while pressing down on the new hole he'd given himself. It was going to be bruised, he knew...badly. Luckily, his tendency to wear jackets would cover that up.

"Great. Real smart, Tim," he muttered. Still with his arm over his head, he stood and stalked into his bathroom still muttering at his stupidity. He wrapped some packed gauze around his arm and walked back into the main room. He stared at the needle now lying on the floor and shook his head. "Yeah, you're a _freaking _genius." It was a good thing Jethro was still enjoying his dinner because a syringe on the floor could be dangerous. He picked it up and disposed of it and sat down to await the coming relief.

He waited...and waited...and waited...and only felt a slight lessening of his tension. His anxiety faded but not completely, and after half an hour, he knew that was as good as it was going to get.

"Well, I guess I'll just have to see if it's enough." He stood and walked into his bedroom. Jethro padded after him and settled on his dog bed. "Good night, Jethro." Tim turned out the lights, rolled over and, to his surprise, fell asleep.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was dark and Tim woke up, his heart pounding. He wasn't sure why, but he was frightened...frightened of something that he couldn't quite remember. He rolled over at looked at the clock beside his bed. Three a.m. It was only three. He should go back to sleep. He should, but...

"I'm not tired." More than that, his heart was still pounding and he felt as antsy as he had the night before. He needed to move around, get things done. He sat up and looked over at Jethro, sleeping soundly on his bed. Lucky dog. He wasn't getting back to sleep tonight. He could feel it; he knew it. If that was the case, he might as well be doing something productive. With that thought, Tim got up quietly, trying not to disturb Jethro. He dressed in silence and walked into the main room. Just before he left, he remembered that Jethro would need feeding. He tiptoed into the kitchen and filled his bowl as quietly as he could. He refilled the water dish and then left his apartment.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

NCIS was dark. There might be a night janitor there...not much else at this time of night. Someone in MTAC, perhaps. Tim shook a little as he walked into the building but he ignored the sensation. If he finished getting into Nielson's computer tonight, he could stop and wouldn't have to worry about the temazepam anymore. There was a very small part of him that scoffed at that assertion, but Tim ignored that, too. He'd been doing this for a long time. He knew how it worked. Use it when you really need it and then stop. That's all.

The bullpen was dark, and Tim only turned on his desk lamp along with his computer. As soon as it booted up, he started to work...and work...and work. His hands began to shake more the longer he was there, but he kept working, desperate to finish.

_I'll finish...and then I can calm down. I just need to get through this. That's all. That's all._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Probie, isn't that what you were wearing yesterday?" Tony asked.

Tim looked up from his computer with a start. "Tony? What are you doing here?"

"I work here, remember?"

Tim blinked and looked at his clock. It was 7:30 a.m.! He had worked without stopping and he still didn't feel tired. He felt shaky, but he was almost in. He knew it. He could feel it...all Tony was doing was distracting him; so he turned his eyes back to his monitor, even though his brain felt like it was made of mush.

"McGee? What are you doing?"

"Working, Tony!" Tim snapped.

"How long have you been here?"

"A while."

"How long?"

Tim sighed. "Since earlier this morning. I couldn't sleep...okay? Now, let me work!"

"McGee...you look terrible," Ziva commented as she walked in. "Were you not wearing those clothes yesterday?"

"That's what I said!" Tony agreed.

"I'm almost done! Please, just shut up!" Tim said, a little hysterically.

"McGee...you sure you're all right?" Tony's tone became worried.

"I will be if you leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone and let me finish!" Tim begged. "Please."

With obvious reluctance, both Tony and Ziva backed off, and Tim went back to work, feverishly sifting through the layers until...almost...

"McGee!"

Tim jumped out of his skin. "What, Boss?" he asked.

"You're here early."

"I'm almost done, Boss. I promise. Just give me a few more minutes, maybe half an hour! I'll be done." Tim didn't look up; so he didn't see the look of concern Gibbs turned on him. He didn't see the silent importuning of Tony and Ziva. All he saw was the end coming into sight. He worked in intense silence for another twenty minutes before suddenly...as if it had not taken him a week of anxiety...he was in. Nielson's computer was open for investigation.

"I got it! I got it!" Tim said, looking up finally. "We're in." He could have cried with relief that he hadn't failed. Instead, he felt his shakes increase until he was amazed that they weren't visible to the rest of the team.

"Good work, McGee," Gibbs said, as if he hadn't been on his case all week about _not_ getting in. "How long have you been here?"

"What?" That didn't seem to be an important point.

"How long have you been here, McGee?"

"Uh...um..." Tim looked at the clock. "...a few hours."

"How many?"

"I...I came in at...at three. Well...more like three-thirty by the time I got to the computer and..." Tim couldn't suppress the shudder that ran through his body. "I just...I wasn't...I wasn't tired...and...this needed to be done and I thought that...that maybe it would be...better if I just..."

"McGee, stop," Gibbs said, now looking very worried. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine...Boss. I just...I need...I...I just wanted to get it done. That's all. I didn't...I didn't want it to...to sit here any longer...and..."

"Okay. Okay, McGee." Gibbs was speaking very carefully as if to an invalid. "Tony, give McGee a ride home. I want you to sleep today, McGee. Got it?"

"But...but the case! I don't...I shouldn't be... not if it's not..."

"Go home, McGee," he said, almost gently. "You've done what I asked you to do. We can read through what he has. If we need you, we'll call. Okay?"

"But...Boss," Tim protested weakly.

"Go home."

"Yes, Boss. I can drive myself," Tim said, deliberately speaking slowly.

"No, I think you'd better let Tony drive you."

"Okay." Tim nodded and stood up. "Are you sure that I shouldn't just–?"

"Go home."

"Okay, Boss." Tim followed Tony to the elevator and they rode down in silence. It wasn't until they were in Tony's car on their way to Silver Spring that any conversation occurred.

"What's up with you, McGee?"

"Nothing, Tony," Tim said, the words coming too quickly.

"Yeah, right. You're bouncing off the walls, McGee. It's like you got into Abby's secret stash of Caf-Pow!s only you emptied the entire machine instead of having just one."

"I'm fine. I just couldn't sleep last night."

"How much sleep _did_ you get?"

"I don't know."

"But you got up at three in the morning to come to NCIS and work?"

"I needed to finish it, Tony! I just needed to get that done...so I can...relax."

"Well, relax, then, McGee. Don't stress so much."

"I was just doing my job. I couldn't fail!"

"You didn't fail. You did it. You got in."

"After a whole week!"

Tony shook his head. "Just get some sleep. You don't look well...at all, McGee. You're freaking us out. Are you sure there's nothing else?"

"I'm sure. I'll work on that," Tim said absently. Now, he knew that the shipment was due today...and all he wanted was to take a dose just to help him calm down. Then, tomorrow, he could stop. He felt wired, ready to launch like a rocket. It was only his determination _not_ to let Tony see it that kept him from freaking out, but he couldn't stop the shaking.

When they reached his building, Tony gave him a long look.

"You need any help getting up there?"

"I know how to walk, Tony. Thanks for the ride," Tim said all in one breath.

He opened the door and got out before Tony could say anything else and walked quickly into his building. He unlocked the door, stepped inside and shut the door behind him...and only then, let the shaking increase until it brought him to his knees. Jethro came running over, and he whined and pushed at Tim with his nose.

"It's just...I just...need to r-relax, Jethro," Tim said through the shaking.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, but a knock on the door brought him out of his trance-like state. He mastered the shaking.

"Who is it?" he called.

"FedEx!"

Just the name brought Tim such relief that he was able to stand open the door to accept his packages without any trouble.

"Sign here."

Tim did so and brought the boxes inside.

"No, Jethro. These aren't for you. They're for me. I need them." Eagerly, he took one over to his desk, opened it and pulled out the bottle of capsules. With incautious haste, he pulled out a syringe, tied off his arm, filled the syringe and injected it, not caring about anything other than stopping the tremors, stopping the anxiety, stopping the stress.

Then, he waited...but it didn't happen fast enough.

"Just one more. That should do it. Just one more," Tim said, panting. He filled the syringe again and injected it into his arm. ...and he waited. It still wasn't happening fast enough, but he forced himself to wait. The release, when it finally came, was so intense that Tim almost fell off the chair. He could barely stay upright. He didn't bother to throw away the syringe, although he didn't drop it onto the floor. He didn't take off the strap around his arm, although he loosened it. He didn't even bother with stopping the slight bleeding. He just reeled into his bedroom and fell onto his bed with a deep sigh.

"Oh, Jethro, that's better. That's so much better." That was all he managed to say before he fell asleep.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"There's something wrong with McGee," Tony said when he got back. "How long has he been like this?"

"All this week, I think," Ziva said. "I know that he has been very worried about getting into Nielson's computer."

"Speaking of," Gibbs interrupted. He picked up his phone. "Abby, we need you up here. You have time?"

"_Sure, Gibbs. I'm just about caught up. I thought Tim was doing all that stuff for you."_

"He wasn't feeling well. I sent him home."

"_I'll be right up."_

Abby was up in the bullpen in about a minute. "Did he finally get through?"

"Yeah," Tony said. "Abby, when's the last time you talked to McGee?"

"Not since this weekend when we were both trying to get things done. He was _really_ stressed out," she said, smiling. "I'll bet he was glad to finally get through."

"Yeah, I think he was. Did he seem...more stressed than usual?"

Abby shrugged and sat down at Tim's computer, working while she talked...both at high speed. "It's kind of hard to tell, you know? He's been stressed pretty much ever since you guys got split up. I know that he really hated having to hide stuff from you, Gibbs. He told me that he was working on some stuff that Vance had set him, but that he couldn't tell anyone what he was doing. Then, when you found out, he felt really guilty about it. He said he thought that you were probably pretty mad at him. In fact, I think it still bothers him a little. He mentioned it this weekend...you know McGee. He's good at beating himself up. I told him you'd probably forgotten all about it. I think he was looking at Nielson's computer as some sort of test...and you know how much McGee loves tests. He talked about it like he would fail if he didn't get in...but _more_ stressed? I think he's been more stressed since you guys got split up, but on Saturday, he was just at his usual level of high stress. There's what you're looking for, I think," she finished, putting the information up on the plasma. "Looks like Nielson was a drug dealer. So much for the squeaky-clean Navy man."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

There was something wet on his hand. Tim took a deep breath and his eyelids fluttered weakly. He let out the air and tried again. The wetness returned...and there was a strange noise accompanying it. After a couple more tries, his eyes opened...and he was face to face with Jethro, who was panting and whining pitifully.

"Jethro..." Tim yawned and tried to wake up. He felt as though he could sleep forever. "...what is it?"

Jethro whined again and barked this time.

"What time is it?" Tim asked and looked at the clock. "Wow...I slept for...eight hours." It took a few seconds for the significance of that to sink in...at least as it related to his dog. "Oh...you need to go out, don't you? Or are you hungry? Or both?"

It was too many questions and Jethro started jumping around eagerly. Tim took another slow breath and started to sit up...only to fall back.

"Wow...dizzy." He felt like his brain had been shut down and was having trouble with the reboot.

Then, his phone started ringing. Even though he'd now been awake for five minutes, Tim still felt woozy. He rolled over to grab the phone.

"Hello?" he asked, sounding, even to his own ears, very sleepy.

"_Tim! Are you all right?"_

"Abby?"

"_Yeah, who else?"_

"I don't know. I'm fine. Why?"

"_I called you three times already. Why didn't you answer? I was ready to run over there and make sure you weren't dead!"_

Tim smiled vaguely. "No, I'm not dead. I was asleep. That's what Gibbs told me to do. I was just obeying orders."

"_Well, you certainly sound more relaxed."_

"I am...but I do need to take Jethro out. I completely zonked out when I got home. He's probably on the verge of exploding."

"_Want company?"_

Tim woke up a little more, remembering that all his pills and things would still be sitting out.

"No, that's all right. I'll just take him out, feed him...feed myself and go back to bed. I feel like I haven't had a decent amount of sleep in ages."

"_You probably haven't. You really need to work on that, Tim."_

"I will. This weekend will be my lazy weekend...barring any unforeseens."

"_You sure you're all right? You had everyone pretty worried."_

"I'm fine. I was just tired is all."

"_Okay. Then, I'll see you tomorrow?"_

"Yeah. Tomorrow. Bye, Abby."

"_Bye, Tim."_

Tim hung up and rolled over. He sat up, his head spinning a little, but not enough to knock him over again.

"Okay, Jethro. We'll go out. I think _I_ could use the exercise. I feel like I'm thinking through wool." He stood up, looking down at his very rumpled clothing...which he'd now been wearing for two days straight. It had looked better. "I should probably change first." Everything felt so...slow. He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, trying to wake himself up. It worked...slightly. Jethro was still leaping around frantically and Tim felt guilty for keeping him waiting for so long.

"I'm sorry, Jethro. Just let me throw on some appropriate clothes and we'll go out." Tim changed quickly, noting with embarrassment that he hadn't even taken off the strap before collapsing. When he got out into the main room, he was surprised that he hadn't done _anything_ to clean up. The empty capsules were still sitting on his desk, the syringe beside them. The open container of the other capsules looked...wrong sitting out on his desk. Tim was bothered by the evidence of his earlier...problem. Quickly, he gathered it all up, throwing away the syringe in his designated bag, closing the bottle of pills, discarding the used capsules. Two of them. Tim didn't like that. He shouldn't have done that. It was a bad idea. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

Then, he discovered part of the reason for Jethro's anxiety. All the training in the world couldn't stop a pet from using the floor as his toilet when kept indoors for so long. Tim looked at Jethro and immediately, the tail drooped and Jethro whined pitifully.

"No, Jethro. It's my fault. I'm sorry. I neglected you today." Tim decided that the immediate need for going outside had probably been taken care of; so he decided to feed Jethro first and his friend ate the food even as he poured it out of the bag into the bowl.

"You were really hungry, weren't you? I'm so sorry, Jethro. I won't do that to you again. It was wrong of me," Tim said softly, petting Jethro. He refilled the water bowl and then set about cleaning up the mess Jethro had left for him. By the time he finished, so had Jethro. Tim smiled at how happy his pet was. It was so easy for a dog to forgive. That thought gave him an unexpected twist and he suddenly felt like crying. He shook off the feeling and grabbed a leash. ...and then, ran after Jethro as he dragged him down the sidewalk.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was ten p.m. Jethro was happy after his walk and being fed. Tim was not. He knew that he should probably just start tonight with not taking any temazepam, but he knew that there would probably be a couple of nights of little or no sleep...and he didn't want to go to work tomorrow looking like he was still having trouble. One more night would bring him to the weekend. He could start then.

That decided, Tim got out his paraphernalia, back to his careful administration...except for one thing. As he picked up the bottle to shake out a pill, it slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor.

"Jethro, stay!" Tim commanded, for his dog had started after the little capsules now rolling around on the floor. Obediently, Jethro waited. Quickly, he gathered them up, worried that he might miss one. It took him too long to pick them up and he started feeling anxious that just one pill might have escaped his notice. What if he missed it? What should have been just a minor annoyance was swiftly becoming something terrible and unforgivable. Tim swallowed and looked around. He wished the pills weren't clear, but the gel-filled capsules were dangerous to inject. Liquid was the safest way to go.

He went through his ritual and cleaned up after himself. Then, he went to bed, basking in the release that he felt, the total relaxation.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Something skittered across the floor. Pawed feet pattered after it. Panting and then more skittering. Jethro sniffed at the strange thing he had found. Small, making strange noises. It was a strange smell as well. He sniffed at it again and pawed it around. Again, it made that strange skittering sound across the floor. Unable to resist, the German shepherd lapped up the small thing, swallowing it before he could even taste it. No more of the little things were on the floor...so he padded into his bed and lay down, his ears pricking to the slow breathing of his master.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The alarm blared, pulling Tim from the cottony dreams that had padded his last few hours. He yawned and stretched, feeling extremely drowsy still, but not enough that he couldn't get up. He noticed, however, that Jethro wasn't doing his usual morning dance in response to the loud alarm. That was strange. Tim rolled over and looked toward the dog bed. Jethro was there...asleep. How could he still be asleep?

"Jethro?" Tim called. No response from his dog. Feeling a little worried, Tim sat up, ignoring the dizziness, and went over to the dog bed on the floor. He knelt down. "Jethro! Wake up!" He nudged him gently...and then with more urgency. "Jethro!"

Suddenly, Tim knew what was wrong. He knew what had happened. "Oh, no! I've killed him!" Frantically, he searched for a pulse...and to his great relief, found one, very, very slow. Everything fled from his mind except for the fact that he was sure his dog had found one of his pills and swallowed it. Who knew when... Each pill was 30 mg. He didn't know how much would be normal for a dog (if it was normal at all), but he knew that he probably weighed twice as much as Jethro did...at least. For just a moment, he stared at the silent shape in front of him and then, he began to panic, running around, getting clothes on, searching for his keys. Then, he ran back to his bedroom, picked up the limp dog and staggered to the door, remembering, just before he shut it behind him, to grab his phone.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Help! My dog needs help!" he said as he ran into the animal hospital.

"What happened?" A nurse...at least, Tim figured she must be a nurse. She had been behind the counter anyway. Tim hadn't had any reason to take Jethro to a hospital before.

"I think...I think he took one of my pills."

"What is it?"

"I take temazepam to help me sleep," Tim said, "and last night, I dropped the bottle. I thought I'd got them all." He nearly started crying. "Now, he won't wake up. Can you help him?"

The nurse's expression went from confused to very concerned. "Bring him in," she directed, pulling out a gurney. Tim put Jethro on it and then helped her push it back. "How much do you think he took?"

"I thought I got them all...maybe one pill, but...they're 30-mg capsules."

Her expression only became more worried.

"Is he going to die?" Tim asked.

"Dr. Vilane will have to determine that, but I think he'll be okay. Why don't you have a seat out in the waiting room, Mr.–?"

"McGee...please, can't I stay with him?" Tim felt slightly silly for acting like this when Jethro was only an animal, but he was an animal who looked to Tim to keep him safe, not drug him to death.

"No, Mr. McGee. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to wait out here." She pointed toward the chairs.

Tim walked over and sat down, rubbing his hands over his face. If Jethro died...it would be all his fault...because he was so clumsy. In the back of his mind, he wondered what Gibbs would say if he called and said he'd be late because Jethro was sick, but that took back seat to wondering if Jethro was going to die because of his stupidity. Abby would never forgive him. He'd never forgive himself.

It seemed like forever, but was really only about half an hour before the veterinarian came out.

"Mr. McGee?"

Tim jumped up. "Is he okay?"

"He will be."

Tim's relief was so deep that he had to sit back down again. "I thought I might have killed him," he said and started to cry.

Dr. Vilane sat down beside Tim and rubbed his back.

"I'm sorry. I'm being stupid," Tim mumbled.

"It's all right. Our pets are part of our family. The temazepam had already circulated through his system. He must have found it last night."

Tim winced.

"These things happen sometimes, Mr. McGee. I'd like to keep him here for a while just to make sure there aren't any side effects, but you can take him home tonight."

Tim nodded. "Thank you. I...I need to go to work."

"He's still sleeping now. You can come this evening. I just need you to fill out some forms before you go."

Tim nodded again. He walked to the counter, wrote down all his contact information and was grateful that he had decided to buy pet insurance. Then, he left, drove back to his apartment, and walked to his desk. He took all the pills from the drawer and flushed them down the toilet. He wouldn't risk that happening again. Jethro could have _died_.

"I'm done," he said to himself. Then, he changed his clothes and went to work...he was only about five minutes late.

He didn't mention what had happened to anyone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Abby had stated everything so matter-of-factly the day before that Gibbs had, at first, not realized what she'd said. Then, he had paid attention and realized that she had noticed what no one else had, perhaps because she was the only one who'd been with him for all the time that the team was split up. Tim did seem to be operating at a high level of anxiety lately. There was a return of the need to prove his worth, the need to please those above him...and he seemed more nervous than he had been for years. Gibbs was tempted to brush it off as just because of the case, but now that he thought about it, he saw that it had been going on ever since the team had been back...and from what Abby said, it was longer than that. It was perplexing, and Gibbs didn't like unsolved problems. That included cases as well as the members of his team.

He decided to pay attention to how Tim acted that day, to see if he could pinpoint the problem...if one existed. There had been _something_ very wrong yesterday...and it wasn't just Tim being tired. For one thing, he wasn't acting tired...unless he'd been going for _days_ without sleep and was on the delirious side of sleep deprivation. Then, too, Tony had mentioned that Tim wasn't eating, and he was definitely losing weight, particularly in the last couple of weeks. Still, Tim had seemed mostly his usual self...and of course, that involved a measure of stress. Gibbs didn't think that he'd _ever_ seen Tim really relaxed. When Tim was around people, he seemed to feel that he was on display. Of course, and here Gibbs smiled wryly, with Tony around, Tim often _was_ on display. Gibbs found himself wondering what Tim was like when he was comfortable...probably more like when he had walked in on Tim down in Cybercrimes. He was confident, in his element, and people looked up to him. He had said it was because he carried a gun, but it was more than that. Why wasn't he like that anywhere else?

The elevator doors opened and the focus of his ruminations came running into the bullpen.

"Sorry, I'm late, Boss! I didn't hear my alarm and I slept late and..." Tim hesitated before continuing, "...and I just couldn't get here on time."

Tim seemed...almost normal...but was this the new normal that no one had noticed except Abby? There was an edge to Tim that hadn't been there before...and he had a look about him that said he was feeling guilty about something.

"Don't let it happen again, McGee," Gibbs said, but modulated his tone so that it didn't sound too annoyed. Tim's expression was surprised. Maybe it had been his imagination that Tim was different. That was certainly a normal reaction to Gibbs _not_ employing a head slap. Still, there was that edge. Gibbs couldn't define it and so he decided to continue watching Tim that day.

Gibbs noticed Tony and Ziva watching Tim more often as well. He had managed to worry them all. Tony, in particular, had a look on his face that said he was considering something distasteful...no, more than distasteful, something that he didn't want to consider at all. Ziva was looking at Tim as if trying, as Gibbs was, to figure out what was different.

They had their own work to do as well, of course. Finding out that Lt. Nielson was a drug dealer did not absolve them of finding his killer, but it did skew their search in a completely different direction...and that required time and concentration.

Tim seemed fine in the morning. He helped plow through the data on Nielson's computer, figure out a new list of suspects, but as the day progressed, Gibbs noticed he became more jittery. His attention flagged and he seemed continually thinking of something else. In fact, by the time they had a suspect to pick up, Tim seemed almost as anxious as he'd been the day before, although he was certainly hiding it better. For the first time, Gibbs was actually worried about taking Tim along. Yes, he'd left him behind before, but it wasn't because of any concern about his ability.

Well... "Let's roll," Gibbs said and watched as they all gathered their gear to follow him. All the way over to the address of their suspect, Gibbs' gut was screaming that there was something wrong...and while he'd never questioned the validity of his gut feelings, something was keeping him from seeing what the real problem was.

As they pulled up, Gibbs turned his attention to assessing the situation. Which place would be safest to send Tim? There was a side door that looked as though it fed into the garage rather than the house itself. That would do.

"McGee, you take the side. DiNozzo, you take the back. Ziva and I will take the front," he directed tersely. Then, he had to focus on the arrest rather than McGee...which, thankfully, went without a hitch...he thought. Tim looked, if anything, worse when they got back to the car. He didn't know why because the man had run out the back. Tim wasn't involved at all.

"McGee, you all right?" Tony asked.

"Fine. Just a little..." Tim trailed off without finishing and stared out the window. He stopped speaking, but he didn't stop moving. His hands were in constant motion and his eyes darted around.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Tony. I'm sure," Tim said, sounding more like himself. The fidgeting stopped...and Tim didn't act out of character for the rest of the day.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"McGee, wait a second," Gibbs said. Tony and Ziva had left already, but not without concerned glances in Tim's direction. This day had done nothing to ease anyone's worries.

Tim didn't want to wait. It was written on every line of his face. Now, Gibbs could see the urgency, the anxiety, the sheer agitation that seemed to be gripping his agent. Tim was swallowing incessantly and...was that a tremor in his hands?

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Wrong? Nothing's wrong, Boss," Tim said...and lied while he said it.

"You wanna try answering that again without the lie?" Gibbs asked, pointedly.

Tim flushed and looked at his feet. For a few seconds, he was quiet.

"It's Jethro," he finally said, staring at the floor.

It took Gibbs a moment to realize that Tim wasn't talking about him but about his dog.

"What about him? He attack you again?"

"No. He was sick this morning. That's why I was late. I had to get him to the vet right away. He thinks that I must have left something out and Jethro got into it." Tim looked up and Gibbs was surprised to see tears in his eyes. "I could have_ killed_ my dog, Boss! If I hadn't noticed before I left...he might have been dead when I got back." His eyes went back to his shoes. "Jethro doesn't deserve that. I should have paid more attention. He depends on me to take care of him, not poison him!"

"Is he going to be all right?"

"Yeah. The vet called at lunch. I'm going to pick him up on my way home."

That was all true, Gibbs could see, but it wasn't everything.

"Anything else you want to tell me?"

Tim shook his head. "I'm sorry, Boss. I've been so scatterbrained today. I just...I thought I was so careful. I thought that I'd never..." He drew a shaking hand across his face...a hand that didn't _stop_ shaking even when it was hanging limply at his side.

"When's the last time you ate, McGee?"

Tim looked at him in confusion...too much confusion, actually, based on the simplicity of the question. Then, he blinked and thought about it. Gibbs could see his brain cells rubbing together. Had it been _that_ long?

"Tony got me a sandwich for dinner."

"Wait, do you mean two days ago?"

Tim blinked again and appeared to be counting. "I guess I do." His voice contained an unhealthy dose of surprise. How could he not have noticed he wasn't eating?

Gibbs rolled his eyes, but that was mostly to cover his worry. "McGee, you can't do that to yourself. No wonder you're shaking like a leaf."

"I'm shaking?" Tim asked and looked down at his hands. Gibbs watched him clench them into fists. "I slept all day yesterday. I just wasn't hungry."

"And you're not hungry now?"

Tim again gave that question due consideration before shaking his head. "No. I'm fine."

"No, you're not, McGee. Can I trust you to eat something or do I need to drag you to a restaurant and force feed you?"

"No, I'll eat. I'll pick up Jethro and I'll get something on the way home. I just haven't been hungry...and there's so much to do," Tim said, his voice suddenly filling with exhaustion.

"There's not so much to do that you can't eat occasionally, McGee," Gibbs said drily.

Tim smiled a little at that. "I'll remember that. I'll be back to normal on Monday, Boss. I'm sorry that..."

"No apologies. I should have noticed sooner."

Tim just shrugged and then hitched his bag higher onto his shoulder. "Is that everything, Boss?"

"For now, McGee. Take it easy this weekend."

"That's my plan."

Then, Tim was gone. Gibbs went over the conversation. Everything spoken explained Tim's state, but...Gibbs' gut insisted that there was more going on. He stared at the closed elevator doors feeling as though he had missed something important.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Jethro was not his usual chipper self when he entered Tim's apartment. He was at least awake and walking on his own four legs, but his tail drooped and he seemed sluggish. His master was in even worse shape. He had, as promised, stopped to get some food, but now that he was home and looking at it, although he'd nibbled at it in the car, he didn't want it. The only thing he wanted was something he couldn't have. No matter what. He had thrown away his entire supply and there was no way he'd get more...and he had said he wasn't going to use it anymore. He was done...

But that was hard to hold to that when he felt so awful. Tim looked down at Jethro and felt a twist in his heart at how groggy Jethro still seemed...but even that couldn't stop the tremors, couldn't stop the...the _need_ Tim felt. He set his food on the counter and got some food and water for Jethro and then, instead of eating, sat down beside his dog on the floor, shaking and petting him.

"Jethro, I am so, so sorry," Tim managed to say. "I'm...I can't believe I did that to you."

Jethro didn't eat everything. Dr. Vilane had said his appetite would be off while he recovered. In a day or two, he'd be back to normal. He lapped up some water and then, walked over to Tim and put his head on Tim's shoulder. Tim scratched behind his ears and Jethro licked his face.

"I don't deserve you, Jethro," Tim said and more tears came to his eyes as his shaking increased. He threw his arms around the dog and buried his face in Jethro's fur. "What's wrong with me?"

Jethro whined a little, but he stayed where he was.

"It will just take a couple of days is all...I'll be fine. I just need to..." The shakes overcame him for a moment. "...just need to wait it out. That's all..." The tremors were almost painful and Jethro finally pulled away. Tim didn't have the strength to hold onto him and he fell over onto the floor, tucking his arms around his waist, trying to get back in control of his body which was inexplicably rebelling against him. "It will pass...it will pass. Please...please, let it pass." The shaking just wouldn't stop. He started to sweat and he wondered if he was dying.

He lay on the floor the entire night. His phone rang a couple of times but he couldn't stir himself to get to it. He just stayed there, trying to stave off the tremors, trying to pretend that this would pass quickly. His stomach started cramping but he'd eaten so little that it scarcely mattered.

He didn't sleep, but as the hours passed, he began to have waking nightmares and he wanted to scream at the horrors he kept seeing, but he couldn't find his voice to do so. Monsters coming out of the walls, maggots oozing all over him...but he couldn't scream. He just breathed and cried, occasionally writhing in imagined pain. He would have clawed at himself to stop the sensations of pins and needles all over his body but he couldn't control the shaking enough to do anything about it.

At some point, Jethro padded over to him and nudged his face, whining at him. Tim couldn't do anything. He could barely think, barely acknowledge that Jethro existed in this horrible world into which he'd been thrown. He wanted to die just to stop the agony. More than that, he wanted his drugs. He knew that would make him feel better, but he couldn't take any...because he didn't _have_ any left.

Through it all, a single thread of sanity told him what was wrong, but even in the midst of the agony, the evidence of the truth of that thread, Tim denied it. He couldn't acknowledge what he was, what he had done, what was happening.

All he could do was suffer through it.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Ziva had not slept well, but she still woke up at her usual time to take her morning run. There was something wrong with Tim, but she had not determined what it was, nor had she built up the courage required to confront him about it. Strange that someone like her, used to intimidating the most dangerous criminals, should be so nervous about asking Tim what was wrong. ...maybe because she was afraid of the answer.

_No,_ she berated herself. _This is McGee. Like Gibbs said, he does not know how to lie, and he certainly would not be doing anything wrong. Tony? Yes. But McGee?_

Her run did nothing to soothe her worries, and when she arrived at her apartment, she was surprised to see Tony sitting on her front steps, looking worse than she felt. Had he slept at all? Probably not.

"Tony, this is hardly the time to bring your intrusions into my personal life to my home," she said, testing the waters, seeing how serious this really was...because she knew why he was there. He was there for the same reason she hadn't slept well.

Tony proved it was bad by shrugging without answering...nothing. Tony remained silent. That was dangerous. Ziva sat down beside him.

"What are you thinking?" she asked. There was no need to elaborate on the subject.

"Something impossible."

"What?"

Tony wouldn't even look at her. "I've seen this before. I was a cop in Baltimore, in Peoria. I've been around and even though we don't see this kind of thing much at NCIS, I know it when I see it."

"What is it, then, Tony?"

"McGee's a drug addict," Tony said bluntly. He seemed ashamed of his own words. "He has all the signs, the shaking, the jitters, the anxiety. He's not eating, cutting himself off from his friends. I had buddies who started using. Sometimes, it was just because they'd been Narc for too long. Sometimes, it was an accident, but the end result was the same."

"McGee would not use drugs."

"I know. That's why it's impossible, but I can't see any other explanation, Ziva. I really can't."

"Nor can I. What do we do?"

"We stop it now. Now, before it gets any worse."

"How long do you think?"

Tony shrugged again. "I don't know. Depends on what he's using. Some drugs, like heroin, are addicting basically from the first time you use them. Steroids aren't so bad." He shook his head helplessly. "But it doesn't matter because no matter which drug he's on, he must be either addicted or dependent on it."

"How do we stop him?"

"I want to go and talk to him. See if he'll listen, although most don't."

Ziva smiled. "But you do not wish to go alone?"

As if she needed any more signs that this was bad, Tony smiled back and didn't disagree.

"Why not Ducky or Abby or Gibbs?"

"Abby would freak out. Gibbs...I don't dare tell. And Ducky? I just didn't think of him. You're the closest...and McGee's on our team. It should be us, unless we need reinforcements."

"Very well. May I shower first?"

For the first time, a glimmer of the usual Tony came out. "Yes, please do," he said, waving his hand in front of his nose.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The knocking on the door took Tim completely by surprise.

"_Tim? It's Melanie from two! You there?"_

Somehow, Tim managed to stand up. His agony had ebbed slightly and he was able to master himself enough to at least speak.

"Yeah, Melanie, but...I'm sick. What is it?" Tim knew that even his voice sounded bad. He _was_ sick.

"_I have a package for you. It came yesterday, but I forgot to give it to you last night. I can drop it off later, if you want."_

Tim lurched to the door, but didn't open it. "I think I'm pretty contagious. Why don't you just leave it out there and I'll get it?"

"_The FedEx guy wouldn't just leave it out. I'm not sure I should either. Here, I'll set it down and move down the hall. You can open the door and get it. Then, my conscience will be clear."_

"Okay. That'll work." Tim undid the lock on the door, opened it and saw a package on the ground. He recognized the size and shape of it and he thought he might just die of relief. He looked down the hall and saw Melanie at her door.

"You really do look sick, Tim. Anything I can do?"

Tim smiled weakly and shook his head. "No. I just need to rest. I'll be back to normal in a couple of days."

"If you're sure?"

"I am." Tim swallowed. "I just caught a nasty bug. Thanks, Melanie."

"No problem, Tim. I'm on my way out now, but if you need anything later..."

Tim just nodded, pulled the box inside and shut and locked the door. He wept at the address. One box had come while he was at work. He had missed one of the boxes. He had a whole supply. He was saved.

"I can't _not_ do it, Jethro. I feel like I'm dying," he said and picked it up. He dropped it twice before he got it to the counter, not the desk. He couldn't take the time to be careful. He couldn't. He had to have it. Now.

With shaking hands, he tried to open it. He couldn't. He was too weak. His tears became tears of frustration and he grabbed a knife, stabbing it into the tape, tearing at it in an attempt to get at what he needed.

"Please, please, please," he whispered, pulling at the flaps. He got the bottle of pills out and realized, then, that he didn't have his needles. He couldn't wait for the pills to enter his bloodstream by taking them orally. He needed relief now. He lurched over to his desk, Jethro following after him, sensing his excitement, his mania. He got back to the counter and struggled to open the bottle. His hands were shaking. He couldn't see very well. The monsters were lurking just out of sight.

The lid was off, but he was shaking still and the pills rattled out of the bottle onto the counter; luckily none fell to the floor. Tim picked one up, stared at it with intense longing but then suddenly threw it into the sink. This had to _stop_. He reached out for the bottle to add it to the one pill that had just gone down the drain, but before he could do anything with it, he collapsed to the floor, his body wracked with convulsions that did not cease.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"His car is there," Ziva said. "And there is a light on in his apartment."

"Good," Tony said as he turned off the engine, but he didn't look very happy. He'd seen this kind of thing too many times to have much hope of a happy ending. If only he wasn't so sure he was right. That was the worst thing. He'd tried to deny that was what he was seeing, but he couldn't anymore. Now, even though he was pretty sure he knew what he'd see in Tim's apartment, he didn't want to. He didn't want to shatter the image of who Tim was in his head. He might tease him for being naive and gullible, but he didn't want to confront the image of a junkie.

Tony and Ziva went up the steps and walked to Tim's door without speaking to each other. Neither was happy about what they were doing. They just knew it had to be done.

Tony knocked on the door. There was no answer, but they could hear Jethro through the door. He was whimpering and his paws clicked on the floor.

"McGee!" Tony called through the door and pounded on it. "You don't open this door in five seconds, we're coming in!"

No response.

Tony looked at Ziva and she pulled out her tools and picked the lock.

Jethro jumped at them wildly when they opened the door. He knew them both and he knew that they were good people to be there. He leapt around, whining and panting...but as distracting as his antics were, they couldn't divert Tony and Ziva's attention from the sight that greeted them in the kitchen. Tim was lying on the floor shaking violently. The counter was littered with pills, needles and a large butcher knife. There was a hint of a monstrous bruise on Tim's right arm. They couldn't see all of it because his arms were wrapped around his torso. His eyes were open, but his eyeballs were rolling back in head.

"He's having a seizure!" Tony shouted and knelt down beside Tim. There was nothing to do except wait for it to pass, he knew, but he couldn't just stand there. He heard Ziva calling 911, but he didn't pay much attention to that.

"McGee, you idiot," he said softly. "How could you do something so _stupid_?"

The convulsions stopped and Tim's eyes slid closed as his body relaxed, but the tremors continued.

"They are on their way," Ziva said, joining Tony beside Tim's trembling body. "McGee?"

Tim's lids fluttered briefly and then his eyes flew open. "They're coming! It's dangerous for you to be here!" he said, hoarsely.

"Who, McGee?" Ziva asked, moving closer.

Tim reached out his hands to her, shaking badly...and his large bruise from the pierced vein was fully visible. "Help me!" he begged. He looked at Tony. "Make it stop! Make it stop!" He swallowed and panted. Tears fell down his cheeks. "Please, make it stop!"

"How much did you take, McGee?" Tony asked, trying to stay objective, but it was so hard not to want to either kill Tim for his idiocy or hug him.

"I stopped! I stopped!"

"How much did you take?" he asked again.

"None!" Tim wept. "Please, just one. Just one will make it stop!"

Ziva did what Tony wanted to do and pulled Tim into her arms. He continued to weep, sometimes asking them to save him, other times, asking for just one pill. Just once more. Ziva felt his shaking. Tim was also sweating profusely and his skin was hot to the touch.

"We can't do that, McGee."

"Please...please...it's killing me!"

"It will pass," Ziva said, hoping she was right.

When the EMTs arrived, Tony and Ziva told them what had happened, showed them the bottle and then were forced to stay behind after they loaded Tim into the ambulance. Ziva sunk down onto the front step. Jethro came out and whimpered.

"I have never seen anything like that, Tony."

"I haven't either...and I've seen some bad ones." Tony looked like he wanted to cry, but he took a deep breath and looked down at Ziva. "We'd better go. We can call everyone from the hospital."

"And tell them what?"

"That McGee is the biggest, stupidest _idiot_ I've ever known!" Tony exploded and then stalked down the steps to his car.

Ziva hugged Jethro and then, after a moment's thought, led him to Tony's car. Tony didn't protest. In fact, he refused to say another word all the way to the hospital.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Abby never had a conscious memory of what happened after she got the impossible news that Tim had possibly overdosed on some drug, that he was an addict. This was Tim, innocent, naive Tim who said stupid things...but he didn't _do_ stupid things. He didn't _do_ this kind of thing. That was all she could think about, just Tim and this impossibility. That was the only thing running through her mind as she left her apartment, ran down to her car and drove to the hospital. It was amazing that she had made it without getting in an accident because she did not remember a single moment of the drive over...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Gibbs wasn't sure what was worse: that Tim was addicted to drugs and might die or that he had missed it. How _could_ he have missed it? And he had because as soon as Tony told him, his voice holding back his own emotions, he realized what his gut had been telling him all along. Why was it so hard to see that Tim's problems weren't just stress-related? He had all the classic signs...but...it was _Tim_. Involuntarily, Gibbs' mind went to the Marine who had become addicted to steroids and then gone into a mindless rage. At least, Gibbs knew _why_ the man had done what he had done. He didn't have that for Tim. He didn't _understand_ why someone like Tim...or rather, like he had _thought_ Tim was...why he would do something so completely stupid, so irrational...so _illogical_. None of it fit. ...and he didn't like it when the pieces didn't fit...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Ducky felt a thorough shock. He had not seen much of Tim in the last few weeks. It had been one case after another and to suddenly receive a call from Tony saying that Tim was in the hospital because of taking drugs...it was as though he had landed in an alternate universe. So much so that he had to sit for a moment to collect his thoughts, to rearrange the things he thought he knew to incorporate this new information. Unfortunately, he felt that it shouldn't have been unexpected. Tim was...well, not the typical drug addict but certainly the kind of person who would fall into something like drugs and go too far... He knew all this instinctively and was almost ashamed that he did. It was wrong that his skills should be applied to one of his colleagues...one of his friends.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Tony, you have not said a word since calling Gibbs," Ziva said. "What is it?"

Tony gave her a glare and didn't answer.

"Is it because you were correct?"

Tony didn't answer. He just stared at the doors through which Tim had been carted only a few minutes ago.

"I am glad that you were," she said. "If you had not had your suspicions, who knows what would have happened? McGee might have had more than an overdose. He might be dead."

Still, Tony remained silent, although she could sense him getting angry again.

"I cannot erase seeing Tim like that. When do you think he started? Recently? Perhaps it is an old habit. How do you think he got them? On the street? I cannot see McGee buying from a street dealer."

"Shut _up_, Ziva!" Tony shouted. A few other people in the waiting area stared at him. "Don't you get who you're talking about? This is McGee! This is the guy who said that he told his parents everything, who reads _Redbook_ for the articles, who got a tattoo to impress Abby, who...who _isn't_ a guy who uses drugs! This is _McGee_! He's a drug addict, Ziva! He's been lying to us all this time and pretending he's someone he's not! ...and now he may have killed himself."

"I do not think so, Tony," Ziva said quietly.

"What do you mean you _don't think so_?"

"I do not think McGee has been pretending to be someone he is not."

"Yeah? You think that he just accidentally shot himself up with temazepam? You think he just accidentally failed to mention that?"

"No. I did not say that he had not lied nor did I say that his drug use was an accident. I just said that Tim was not pretending to be a different person."

Somehow, Ziva's calm responses only made Tony angrier.

"McGee is–"

"Your friend," Ziva said, cutting Tony off, showing the first sign of emotion since the ambulance had taken Tim away. "He is your friend. He is my friend. He is not one of your criminals, Tony. He has not changed. We only now know this about him...and our job here is not to condemn him for it."

"Yeah, like you didn't condemn him when he shot Benedict?"

"I was wrong."

"No, Ziva. You were right. McGee's a liar," Tony spat. He stood up to leave when a nurse came out.

"Who is here for Timothy McGee?" she called.

"We are," Ziva said, grabbing Tony's arm.

"Come with me, please."

Tony followed, reluctantly. "So...how much did he take?" he asked bitterly.

"None."

"None?" Tony asked in disbelief.

"Not this time. That's not why he was in the shape you found him in."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that he was going through benzodiazepine withdrawal. If he had managed to take even a small dose, it probably would have helped him."

"_Helped_ him?" Tony laughed. "You're kidding, right? Give the junkie what he wants?"

The nurse stopped walking and looked at Tony with an expression that was both understanding and stern. "Do you know anything about benzodiazepines, Agent DiNozzo?"

"Some. They're usually used in conjunction with other drugs."

"And they're very habit-forming," she added. "Some people have become dependent on them after less than a month of _prescribed_ doses. Regardless, coming off benzodiazepines is dangerous...for anyone. In fact, I would be willing to wager that if you hadn't been there to find him, he would have died."

"From _not_ taking the drugs?" Ziva asked. "I do not understand."

"Your friend has been taking temazepam long enough for his body to become dependent on it. That means that he literally _needed_ it to function. His body has forgotten how to work correctly without it. Stopping use completely, all at once, as he apparently attempted to do, leads to things like the convulsions you saw, delusions, sometimes coma and death. That is from _stopping_, not from using. Your friend obviously didn't know this, and he didn't understand what was happening to him. We have him on diazepam at the moment."

"Wait, you're giving him _more_ drugs?" Tony asked.

"Sir, do you have _any_ experience with this?"

"Only from the law enforcement side," Tony said, daring her to challenge him.

She nodded then. "I see. Well, from the medical side, we work a little differently. Breaking a dependency on benzodiazepines takes a long time and requires a slow tapering of the amount of drugs being used. Diazepam is a long-term form that can be cut to extremely low doses as his body recovers its ability to function normally. There are experimental regimens we can try, but these require the permission of the patient."

"You're going to let McGee make the decision?" Tony asked.

"If someone forces him to do something, it's much less likely to work. He'll be more likely to try if he _wants_ it to happen. Based on what you reported, I think that Timothy actually was trying to quit using. That means he'll be open to trying...and he'll be more likely to succeed...but it's going to be a long process even if he's willing...and difficult for all concerned." She stopped outside a door. "He's in there. He's asleep right now, but it would be good if someone was there to reassure him when he wakes up...which probably won't be long."

"Reassure him of what?" Ziva asked.

"That he's not going crazy, that he's okay. We can't give him enough to remove all the symptoms of withdrawal. That would defeat the purpose. Once he's stabilized, we'll be referring him to a clinic; so that he can start getting off them."

"Will he be committed?"

"No, probably not. These kinds of withdrawals are better done on an outpatient basis."

"So...he can just be trusted to do the right thing, is that it?" Tony asked.

The nurse didn't respond to Tony's tone. She seemed to expect it. "Sir, there's only one thing you need to do right now. That's be there for your friend. If you can't do that, you'll do more harm than good in there and you should just go."

Tony looked at her, at the door, and then walked away down the hall.

"Tony!" Ziva shouted after him, but he didn't stop. For a moment, she was torn between going after him and going into Tim's room. Then, she decided that Tony could take care of himself for the moment...and Tim could not.

"It's hard for some people to accept this kind of thing," the nurse said.

"He was the one who figured it out."

"Sometimes, that's worse...to be the one who knows. Timothy is right in here."

Ziva opened the door and looked at Tim. He was asleep, yes, but it was not a pleasant sleep. He was pale and restless, his hands shaking just a little. Ziva wasn't sure what to do, but she walked to the bed and sat down beside him.

"Oh, McGee...how is this possible?"

At the sound of his name, Tim's eyes opened lazily and then drooped again...and then opened once more. He looked confused, frightened.

"Where am I? What's going on?" he asked, agitated and the shaking increased just a little.

"Calm down, McGee," Ziva said. "You are in a hospital."

Tim stared at her for another long moment and then shame filled his eyes. "You saw me."

There was no question of what he meant by that declaration.

"Yes. Tony and I saw you. Why did you do it, McGee? Why did you start using drugs?"

"I was careful. I did it just like I was supposed to. Every time...almost every time."

"How long, McGee? How long have you been using drugs?"

"It's not like you think, Ziva. I'm not...I couldn't be. It's just to...it's just like he said. It's just to help." Tim fidgeted as he spoke, looking anything but calm. He also didn't look as though he believed what he was saying.

"Like _who_ said?"

Tim didn't get a chance to answer, however, because the door burst open revealing Ducky, Abby and Gibbs who all seemed to have arrived at the same moment. They stared at Tim and he stared back. No one spoke. What words could possibly help the situation? Tim seemed to notice Tony's absence but he didn't say anything.

"Tim..." Abby started.

That goaded Tim into speech. "It's not what you think. I'm fine. Really! It's just...I just had a bad...a...a bad night...day...week. It would have been okay. It would've...I just...it's not that I'm...I couldn't be. I'm _not_! I just use it to help me...sleep...calm down...it's just for when things get hard...that's all. That's all it's ever been. I'm not..." Tim stopped.

"You're not what, McGee?" Gibbs asked, taking a step further into the room. He wasn't acting angry, just intent on getting an answer.

"I'm not a..." Tim shrunk down into his bed, still shaking a little. He looked at his hands...his shaking hands and then he looked at Gibbs, at Abby, at Ducky, at Ziva. "I'm not...am I?"

"What, McGee?"

"I'm not...an addict," he said. "He said as long as I was careful, as long as I followed the rules. You only use it when you need it. You only use it then...and then you stop. You stop until the next time you need it. That's how it works. That's how it always works. I always stopped. Always. Every time." Tim was talking about as fast as Abby, but where with Abby it was simply a facet of her personality, for Tim, it was strange and a sign of the agitation that gripped him...a sign of his dependence.

"When did you start, McGee?" Ziva asked. "How long ago?"

Tim waved a trembling hand around in the air. He was trying to speak, but he seemed to get distracted. "I...I can't think...straight...right now. I just need..." He stopped.

"You _need_, McGee?" Gibbs asked. "What you _need _is to admit to yourself that you're on your way to being an addict...if you're not already."

"No," Tim said. "No. Lots of people use drugs to help them. Temazepam isn't illegal! People use it all the time. They get prescriptions! I'm using it how it's supposed to be used."

"Do you _have_ a prescription, Timothy? Have you _ever_ had a prescription?" Ducky asked gently.

"He said that I didn't need to."

"Who? Who is this person you keep talking about, Timothy?"

"M-My roommate...in college."

"How old were you when you started taking this drug?" Ducky asked, shocked that such a length of time was even possible.

"I didn't take it all the time," Tim protested. "Only when I needed it. ...only when it was bad."

"How old were you?" Ducky asked again.

Tim shrank back even further and he whispered the answer. "Seventeen."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Tim had never really cared for his roommate. Being new at a campus meant the luck of the draw when it came to whoever one roomed with...and Tim's luck had been bad. They didn't get along. They had little in common...and the dislike was mutual. Devon seemed to care only about himself. He didn't care if Tim needed quiet because he had to study. He didn't care if Tim was uncomfortable with the girls that came over in a steady stream. He did what he wanted when he wanted to._

_...and Tim was a little jealous. Nothing seemed to get to him. Devon breezed through exams, never had an awkward moment. He was popular, smart and rich...or at least had rich parents who doted on him. Everything worked for him and Tim was struggling through the heavy course load he'd chosen for himself...to say nothing of his nonexistent social life. Then, the first finals week came around and Tim was a nervous wreck. He'd never been very good at taking tests...and these tests were so important. Thus, he barely slept, barely ate and ended the semester with a near nervous breakdown._

_Devon and Tim didn't talk before Christmas break, but Tim had noticed Devon watching him. There seemed to be fewer distractions as well. Tim didn't bring it up for fear of breaking the strange tenuous truce the two of them seemed to have reached. Christmas Break brought questions from his parents about how things were going and for the first time, Tim didn't tell them everything. He didn't talk about how his test anxiety seemed to have intensified. He didn't tell them about his annoying roommate who seemed to exist to make everything more difficult. He didn't tell them about the teasing from being obviously younger than most of the other students...but not young enough to be an amazing prodigy. Tim wasn't a prodigy. He was just out of place. He did tell them about his classes which almost made up for all the problems and for those two weeks, he was able to forget the problems._

_The spring semester began and promptly threw Tim into another bundle of nerves. Knowing how hard things were going to be only made his anxiety worse. He managed to keep it more or less under control until...finals week rolled around again. _

_Tim paced back and forth in his room. It was two in the morning and he couldn't sleep. His test tomorrow was going to be hard, really hard. He'd never pass. He was going to fail and get kicked out of MIT and then he'd be a failure for the rest of his life! What would his parents say? In order to do well, he needed to get his rest but he couldn't get his rest until the test was over. It was halfway through finals and Tim knew he wasn't going to make it. In despair, he sat down on his bed and started crying..softly. He didn't want Devon to hear him...Devon who had finally noticed that his roommate wasn't as good at everything as he was. The uneasy truce had continued throughout the semester and Tim had simply tried to stay out of everyone's way._

"_Yo, Tim, are you _still_ awake?"_

_Tim looked up when the light shown on his tear-streaked face. Devon was standing there, in silhouette._

"_Really, man, there's more to life than studying...like sleeping."_

_Tim wanted to be angry at the interference at how oblivious Devon was but he couldn't. He suddenly started pouring out all his worries...to his loathed roommate._

"_I'm going to fail, Devon! I can't sleep and I'm going to fail and I'm going to get kicked out of MIT and I keep trying to sleep but I can't! I'm so nervous and stressed and my mind keeps going blank and...I'm not going to make it!" He started sobbing harder than ever. What did it matter? In a few days, he'd be kicked out of MIT anyway. He'd never see Devon again. One bright spot in the middle of all the misery._

"_Hey...Tim...take a breath," Devon said, sounding surprised, uncomfortable...and sympathetic. "Just breathe for a second. I thought you were nervous last semester but...how do you even function like this?"_

_Tim gave a watery laugh._

"_Right. You don't. I can help you, you know."_

"_Right. Whatever. Go away and be a genius," Tim said bitterly._

"_You think _I'm_ a genius? No way. Tim, I'm not a genius. I just know how to deal with school."_

"_How?"_

"_You really want to know?"_

"_Yeah...even though it's too late."_

"_It's not. I know how you can get right to sleep tonight and be ready for your test tomorrow. When is it?"_

"_One."_

"_That gives you plenty of time."_

"_Time for what?"_

"_Wait here." Devon walked out of the room and came back a minute later with a small sack. He held it out to Tim. "This is going to help you get to sleep."_

_Tim opened it and looked inside. He was not only shocked but dismayed. "I'm not going to take _drugs_, Devon! Are you insane?"_

_Devon rolled his eyes. "This isn't cocaine or heroin or anything like that, Tim. It's not even marijuana. This is a prescription drug that's meant to help you sleep and help you calm down. It's called temazepam, and it's not illegal."_

"_With a needle?" Tim asked, pointing at the syringes in the bag._

"_A lot of people use needles, Tim. Diabetics for one. You can take them as pills, but you need to sleep now not in an hour. If you inject it, it works faster. That's all."_

_Tim looked at the bag again and then at Devon. "Where did _you_ get them?"_

"_I was like you a couple of years ago. I only take these when I get really snowed under by things. Like you right now. You're stressed out about your test. So...you take one of these during the last few nights of finals week and then you stop. You only need it to keep you from getting too stressed out. That's what temazepam is for. You can look it up yourself. I did all the research on it. As long as you're careful, there's no problem."_

_Tim swallowed nervously. Whatever Devon said, it sure _seemed_ like taking illegal drugs._

"_Look, people who take drugs are doing it to get high. That's all they care about, right? They take it all the time. They have to, just to get high. You're not doing it because you want to get high. You're doing it so you can do well in college. You're a whole lot smarter than I am, Tim, and it would majorly suck if you lost out just because I know how to calm down and you don't."_

"_Take it and then stop?" Tim asked. This gave him a bad feeling but he was so desperate _not_ to fail..._

"_Exactly. I'll show you how to do it, but you have to follow the rules. That's the important thing."_

"_What are the rules?"_

"_First, you _only_ take them when you really need them. So...you get a bit stressed out by tests? Take them the night before a test but no more. Only take them when you really need them. Then, you stop. Second, you have to be careful. You _never_ reuse a needle. Always use a new one. Every time. No exceptions. Clean up after yourself every time. Always. Again, no exceptions. You can't just throw needles into the trash. You have to clean them up carefully. You don't want anyone getting hurt. Third, make sure you get the right pills. See these? They're clear and filled with liquid, not gel. You can get jellies, but those are dangerous to inject because they can damage your veins. The liquid capsules are the best and the safest. Those are the rules and as long as you follow them...you'll be fine."_

_Tim sat silently on his bed. Devon made a lot of sense. He was everything Tim wasn't and he was using it. He was smart. People liked him. He was relaxed. The rules were good rules. He could try it at least. If it didn't work, he'd stop...and there were only two more days of finals anyway. It wouldn't hurt. What could it hurt? He was grasping at straws anyway._

"_Okay...show me."_

_Devon was patient and made Tim practice injecting himself before letting him actually do it. He showed him just how to take the temazepam from the capsules, how to position the needle when injecting his own arm. Finally, Tim administered the drug himself. It hurt a little, but he waited patiently, like Devon had told him and gradually, he felt himself relaxing, feeling tired._

"_It's working, isn't it," Devon said, smiling._

_Tim smiled back. "Yeah. Wow." It was amazing. It really worked. He felt himself getting drowsy, a state he didn't think was possible._

_Devon chuckled. "Go to sleep, Tim...and knock 'em dead tomorrow."_

_Tim lay down and eventually, fell asleep, so deeply that his alarm went off for twenty minutes before he heard it the next morning. He was a little groggy but after about an hour, he was alert, well-rested and ready for his test. He had two tests the next day and he took another dose that night. The two tests were the breeze they should be. One more test on the Friday, with another dose on Thursday night, brought Tim to the end of finals. When his grades were posted, he had straight As. It really did work, and he thanked Devon profusely for it. They only referred to it obliquely. It was understood that this wasn't something they should talk about. So...they didn't._

_While they didn't room together again the next year, Tim still relied on Devon for help when it came to finals weeks. It seemed to be the one thing they had in common, and although Tim didn't become suddenly popular or rich, he at least felt secure in maintaining the one thing he felt defined him: his intelligence. Devon graduated. Tim graduated and then went to grad school. When he got his acceptance, Devon sent him a present...temazepam, with a note saying that he'd be needing them. For a wonder, grad school proved _less_ stressful for Tim than college had. The supply was only broached a couple of times...like the night before his thesis defense. Other than that, Tim didn't use them. He kept to the rules: only use them when you really need them..._

_Those times when he _really_ needed the help became more frequent once he started working at NCIS. Still...it wasn't bad until Kate died. It took days before he could go to sleep without seeing Kate's body in his head, before he could stop wondering what might have happened if Ari had managed to shoot him instead of Kate. Then, Ziva came and although it was hard to stop, harder than he had expected, Tim stopped using the drugs to help him sleep. It was important that he _not_ allow himself to use them when he didn't need them anymore._

_Then, he shot Benedict. Those moments in the alley replayed in his head, over and over. When Tony came over...Tim had only wanted him to leave so he could sleep and forget, but he hadn't and Tim had ended up appreciating Tony's kindness...but it couldn't get rid of what he'd done. Worse, he didn't even get to know if he was the one who had killed the man. It took a long time to let that go. A long time._

_Then, he went for quite a while without needing any help calming down and he thought that maybe he'd finally adjusted to the life he'd chosen for himself...and then, Gibbs was nearly killed, he disappeared, he came back, he left and came back again. Sarah showed up and the team found out about his book and the crazy guy killed people because of what he'd written and Paula and Jim died and then they thought Tony had been killed and then...then, again, there was a stretch where he didn't need the temazepam. By that time, he'd run out of the supply Devon had given him. He hadn't heard from Devon for years, but that happened. People drifted apart. Tim figured out how to get it himself...on the Internet._

_Then, just when he thought things were going well...Jenny died and the team was split up...and it just didn't seem to stop. Three months solid using the temazepam to help him sleep...and then more... and Tim wondered if things would ever calm down, if he'd ever stop feeling that strange tension in the bullpen when he came to work. Things weren't right even if they were back to normal. Something was still wrong and he could feel it...but he couldn't identify what it was. Maybe it was him. Maybe _he_ was out of place. Tony and Ziva didn't seem to feel it. Maybe it was Tim who was the problem. He frantically tried to prove himself wrong, but nothing seemed to go just how it should go. He just couldn't seem to get things to work for himself. Maybe he'd changed too much, or not enough or...something...anything to explain why he felt like he didn't belong anymore... _

And now...he lay in a hospital bed, staring at his friends, watching their faces change from concern to shock...to revulsion at what he'd done. They just didn't get it. Tim wanted them to understand him. He wanted them to see that it wasn't wrong...

He wanted them to tell him that all the years of justification weren't justification, that he hadn't actually done this to himself, that it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding...

Tim couldn't let them see that he was afraid of being just what they thought he was...

An addict.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"You see? It's not a big deal," Tim repeated. He swallowed and shuddered for a moment before continuing. "I would have been okay by Monday. It just takes a couple of days for..."

"McGee, you probably would have been dead," Ziva said. She couldn't believe that Tim was being so...blatantly stupid.

"What? No! I wouldn't! It was just..." Tim was trying to deny it, but his eyes were afraid...of more than what she had just said.

"You were going through withdrawal and it could have killed you."

"No! No...you...you just...you don't get it! It's not like...I..." Tim kept running his shaking hands through his hair. He couldn't seem to stay still.

"It's not like what, McGee?" Gibbs asked, taking a seat. "What really happened to Jethro?"

"Jethro?" Abby asked, horrified. "Something happened?"

Tim's eyes filled with tears. "It wasn't like that, Boss!" He shifted his gaze from Gibbs to Abby, pleading for forgiveness. "I'm...I'm always careful! Always. I...I thought...I thought I'd gotten them all."

"All what?" Gibbs asked mercilessly.

"I dropped the bottle. They spilled on the floor. It was an accident!"

"He found one you'd missed," Gibbs said, certain now that was the part Tim had left out.

Tim started to cry, rubbing his head with one trembling hand. "It could have happened to anyone. It had nothing to do with the fact that I...I...need help sometimes."

"Jethro took your drugs?" Abby asked, her voice now accusing instead of sympathetic.

"It was an accident. You have to believe me! Please, Abby."

"Tim..." Abby began. "...you could have killed him. You could have _killed_ your dog!"

"I know! I know...but...it was an accident. I helped him...as soon as I...I...I found out. It was just an accident. I didn't want that to happen. I really didn't."

Abby's expression wasn't forgiving; however, she didn't leave. She just stared in a kind of morbid fascination. The image of the quiet unassuming computer geek had been shattered by the presence of the desperate, disturbed man in front of her.

"What was the name of this genius who got you hooked on drugs, Tim?" Abby asked derisively.

"I'm _not_! It's not like you think!"

"His name." Abby's voice was as hard as Gibbs'. "Now, McGee. I don't want to hear anything else other than a last name." She paused, hesitating even in her anger to issue the threat on her lips. Then, the idea of Jethro nearly dying flashed through her mind and it loosened her tongue. "Or would you rather I call your parents and ask them?"

Proving that he knew how bad it _looked_ even if he couldn't admit to the meaning yet, Tim opened his mouth and shook his head. "No! You can't!"

"Tell me, McGee."

"D-Devon...Wilson."

"Ziva..." Gibbs began. He didn't need to finish. Ziva stood up with a last look at Tim. Like Gibbs, she was thinking of the Marine, at the mercy of the rebellion of his own body. While she understood Tony's anger and even Abby's to some extent, like in that case, she felt more sympathy than anything else. Consciously, Tim didn't believe that there was anything really wrong. His body had become dependent without his even realizing...and although it was his fault ultimately, she could not condemn him for it.

"Yes, Gibbs. Abby, would you like to join me?"

Abby didn't answer. She just turned around and left the room.

Tim looked at the two men who remained...and couldn't keep his head up. Instead, he stared at his lap.

"Timothy, I'd like to ask you some questions."

"Fine...yeah...fine...okay."

"I need you to look at me, however."

"Why?"

"I don't believe you will be able to lie if you have to look at me while you are speaking," Ducky said, infusing his voice with dark amusement.

Tim didn't look up and Ducky's voice changed. In an instant, it was commanding and sharp.

"Look at me, Timothy!"

Tim lifted his head.

"Thank you. Now, you started when you were seventeen, correct?"

Tim nodded.

"Very well. How often did you take them? You mentioned that you didn't take temazepam often in grad school."

"Just...just the night...the two nights before my thesis defense," Tim said. His eyes were darting around the room, but they returned to Ducky's as he spoke. "And..."

"And?"

"And...well..." Tim flushed and looked away.

"Timothy!"

Tim's eyes were back on Ducky's in an instant. It was almost a parent-child scenario and Tim was so definitely not at his best.

"There...there was this...this girl...and..."

Ducky smiled sadly. "I see. What about after that? When you applied to NCIS?"

Tim shook his head.

"Not at all? Not in the entire application process?"

Tim shook his head again.

"Surely, that was a stressful time for you. Are you trying to tell me that it didn't make you at all nervous?"

"No! No, I was...I was...was nervous but...but..."

"Did you sleep the night before your interview?"

"No."

"Why didn't you take temazepam to help you sleep then?"

"I...I didn't..."

"Didn't need it? If you were nervous enough for your thesis defense, surely you were nervous for the interview."

Tim didn't answer.

"So...why didn't you take any?" Ducky looked at Gibbs.

"It was because of the drug test, wasn't it, McGee," Gibbs said.

Staring at Ducky, Tim looked as though he wanted to deny it but couldn't.

"They...they wouldn't have understood. It would have looked like..."

"Like what?" Gibbs asked. "Like you were using drugs?"

Tim was suddenly angry. "Look, it's...you're trying to make it sound like...like I was...It was only for when I got nervous...for when it was really bad. That's all. There's nothing wrong with that! They wouldn't have got it!"

"So...you said that you used it a few times during your tenure at NCIS," Ducky said, acting as if Tim's outburst hadn't occurred. "How long have you been using it this time?"

"Not that long," Tim said, looking down again.

"Timothy, look at me when you say that. How long? How many days...or is it weeks...or is it _months_? How long?"

Tim raised his eyes. "You have to understand. Everything's been so...so crazy lately and I just..."

"How long?"

"Since...since the team got split up...since Director Shephard died."

"So at least six months. Every night?"

"It's just been so hard."

"How much?"

"What?"

"How much were you taking? How large was your last dose?"

"I think there was...something wrong with the pills I got because...they...they...they just weren't...weren't working right," Tim said, his voice shaking almost as much as the rest of him. "I had to...take more...to make it work."

"How _much_?" Ducky asked.

"Thirty."

"Thirty milligrams?"

Tim nodded.

"And the time before that?"

Now, they both saw Tim's desire to lie. This was something he knew was wrong, no matter how he looked at it. He could justify a lot of things, as had been obvious, but whatever the answer was, he knew he had been in the wrong.

"It had been such a bad week," Tim whispered.

Ducky leaned forward, grabbed Tim by both arms and forced him to look right into his eyes.

"How large a dose did you take?" he asked in a slow deliberate voice.

"S-Sixty," Tim whispered, barely audible.

Ducky let him go in shock. "You took sixty milligrams of temazepam? Timothy, are you out of your mind?"

"It was just...such a..."

"No. No, Timothy. You can_not_ explain this away. You can't pretend that this is normal behavior. Thirty is well above the recommended dosage. Sixty is..." Words failed him and when he started speaking again, he was angry...and afraid. "...it's near suicidal! That's _four times_ more than the average dose. What were you thinking?"

Tim's mouth was working as if he wanted to think of something to say to make it all go away but he couldn't seem to say a word.

"That you survived such a foolish indulgence is amazing. That you didn't destroy your own brain in the process is a miracle."

"It was only...only the once," Tim said, his voice barely audible.

"Timothy," Ducky began...and then stopped. Words failed him.

"Only once," Tim repeated softly.

"How long had you been taking thirty?"

"I...I don't know."

"You don't know?" Gibbs asked.

Tim shook his head. "I...I can't think...right now! My mind is...it's all over and...and if I could just..." Tim stopped.

"Just take more drugs?" Ducky finished for him.

"Just once more," Tim said, his voice falling to a whisper again. "I need to...to be able to do my job. It helps. When things calm down, I can..."

Gibbs actually laughed. "McGee, when are things ever calm at NCIS? This is a high-stress job. That's how it is. It's not going to change."

"No...it's just...just..." Tim looked at him, asking for something, but Gibbs couldn't figure out what it was. "If I could just think...I can't _think_. Why can't I think?"

"Because you're suffering from withdrawal, Timothy. You are and there is no other explanation."

"It's not that! It can't be that!" Tim rubbed furiously at his forehead. "Get out." He looked at Ducky and at Gibbs. "You hear me? Get out! Go away! Leave me alone!" He was nearly shrieking now.

"Very well, Timothy. We'll go, but we're not finished." Ducky stood up.

"Get out!" Tim screamed and then closed his eyes, tucking his arms around his torso, trying to stop the shaking.

Ducky walked out, jerking his head to indicate that Gibbs should follow. Out in the hallway, they stopped and stared at the closed door.

"How did we miss this, Jethro?"

"He was hiding it, Ducky."

"Not that well. Six months, he's been doing this to himself. Fourteen _years_! Why did we refuse to see what was right in front of us the entire time?"

"The same reason he hasn't," Gibbs said. "We didn't think it could happen...not to McGee. I knew it before he went home yesterday, but I didn't believe myself. How bad is he?"

"There's no hope unless he admits that it's a problem." Ducky sighed. "The tragic part is that he really _knows_ that it's wrong, that he's dependent on it...but he can't admit that...for the same reason Tony is angry at him and Abby is angry at him. This isn't the McGee we thought we knew. I can only imagine him as a teenager trying to fit in."

"You're excusing him?" Gibbs asked.

"No. I'm not, but I can understand _why_ someone like Timothy would become addicted. He would never have tried anything illegal...obviously illegal...but temazepam does work. It is prescribed, although less now than in the past, ironically, because of the dangers of addiction and abuse."

"How is Tim doing?" the nurse asked as she joined him.

"He is suffering and he won't admit that it's a problem."

"We have time. We weren't able to get any specifics from him on the dosage although the capsules gave us a clue."

"It looks as though thirty had become his norm, but he used sixty at least once," Ducky said.

"Sixty?"

"Yes. He swears it was only the one time, but..."

"Yes. I understand. It gives us somewhere to start in any case. Keep trying. He needs to understand the danger before he can really start the program. Benzo withdrawal depends too much on the patient for him to be unwilling."

"We're doing our best."

"Keep at it," the nurse said and gave them both an encouraging smile. "Don't lose hope. Many do succeed."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Abby and Ziva stared at the search results. It hadn't taken long, but it had cooled Abby's anger considerably, in spite of Jethro's presence at her feet.

"What do you want to do, Abby?" Ziva asked.

"Tim should know."

"Yes, but who will tell him?"

"One of us, of course."

"I know who should," Ziva said and pulled out her phone. "Tony, I know you are there, pick up, please." She hung up and waited. She didn't have to wait very long. A minute later, her phone rang. "Tony..."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tony stormed through the halls of the hospital. After his precipitous escape from seeing Tim lying in a hospital bed, addicted to drugs, he had gone outside and walked...around and around the hospital, trying to calm down, trying to stop the strange anger that kept surging through him. After Ziva's call, however, he decided that enough was enough. She told him Tim's story and his continued insistence that it wasn't a problem...and she had told him about Devon Wilson. So, now...

Tony nearly kicked the door open. Tim looked completely alarmed...as well he should. Tony was in a towering rage.

"McGee, what do you think you're doing?" he nearly shouted.

"Tony, what are _you_ doing?" Gibbs asked from behind him.

Tony was uncowed. He spun around and saw Gibbs standing with Ducky in the doorway, both of them looking shocked at his behavior.

"I need to talk to McGee. Alone." For about the first time, he gave an order. "Get out." And...for a wonder, Gibbs listened. He turned back.

"What do you want, Tony?" Tim asked, tremulously.

Tony hated the sound of Tim's voice. He hated the sight of him laying there, fidgeting, shaking...addicted. He _hated_ it.

"I want to know why someone as smart as you are is such a total moron! I want to know why you're trying to melt down your brain. I want to know what in the world you think you're trying to accomplish by pretending you don't know what's wrong!"

"You don't understand!" Tim said, desperately.

"I understand, McGee!" Tony shouted, drowning out anything else Tim might have said. "I understand that _you_ are a _junkie_! I understand that you have _been_ a junkie since you were a teenager! I understand that you have one foot in the grave right now and still you're pretending to be as _stupid_ as I think you are!"

"I'm not a junkie," Tim said, but he didn't sound so sure.

"Then, why are you shaking? Why is that you nearly starved yourself? Why did Ziva and I find you seizing in your kitchen?"

"An accident."

"The only accident I can see is that you got past the drug tests when you applied to NCIS."

Tim's protests faded to nothing and he seemed completely undone by that one declaration.

"I know," Tim whispered, but Tony didn't hear.

"Do you know what happened to your dear friend, Devon?"

"We lost touch...haven't seen or heard from him in..."

"That's because he's _dead_, McGee!"

Tim's head snapped up. "What?"

"Devon Wilson is _dead_," Tony repeated. "Do you know how?"

Tim shook his head, staring at Tony in a kind of terrible fascination.

"An overdose...of temazepam. He left behind a wife and a son! Your great and glorious friend _killed_ himself with drugs! That's what you're doing to yourself, McGee!"

"Devon's dead?" Tim asked, feeling stupid and slow.

"Yes! Devon is _dead_! Don't you get it? That's where you're headed, McGee!"

"No..."

"Yes! I've seen it happen. I've seen the druggies who only think about when they can shoot up again. I've seen _cops_ who get hooked. Nearly all of them end up dead...or else killing someone they care about."

Tim's breaths became shallow. "No...no, please, no."

"Yes," Tony said, no longer shouting. "Yes, McGee...and I don't want to see it happen. If you can't admit that you have a problem and that you need _help_ not drugs...I want nothing to do with you. I won't stand by and watch you kill yourself."

Tim was trying to cry and hyperventilate at the same time. "The...the...only...reason I'm...here..." He couldn't speak for a few seconds. Tony just watched him dispassionately. He meant what he said, but he was giving Tim a chance. "...at NCIS...is because I take drugs." Then, he broke down into wordless sobbing.

"No, McGee, that's the reason you're in the hospital." He took one step toward the bed. "Can you admit that you have a problem?"

Tim just continued to sob. Tony didn't move.

Finally, through the sobs, Tim said, "I can't."

"You can't?"

Tim lifted his head and reached out a hand toward Tony, pleading, but Tony backed up a step.

"Then, I'm not going to stick around and watch you die," Tony said and turned to leave.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"Wait! Tony, please!" Tim begged.

Tony stopped with his hand on the door, but he didn't turn around.

"Please, don't leave me here."

"You've left yourself here, McGee. Deal with it."

"I can't do this."

"Can't do what? Take back the life you gave up? Show some backbone? What can't you do?"

Tim didn't answer. Instead, he pleaded, "Please, Tony."

Tony turned around once again, but there was no softening. "Don't you beg. I'm not going to let you make this go away by lying to me and to yourself. Don't you _dare_ beg me for anything." Then, he left.

It was hard to tell which one felt worse about the door closing behind him.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"DiNozzo!"

Tony kept walking. He was still full of the rage that had driven him to confront Tim.

"DiNozzo! Stop!"

"I'm not going to talk about it, Boss," Tony shot back over his shoulder and kept walking. "I'm not going to watch this happen."

Gibbs caught up to him a few moments later.

"You're giving up?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because McGee has. He doesn't think he can do it. He's addicted. I'm not going to wait for him to finally kill himself or someone else. I'm not going to let him think that what he's doing is okay." Tony stopped abruptly and looked at Gibbs. "Boss, I'm not."

Gibbs smiled sadly in understanding. "Walk away, Tony...but don't give up on him. McGee will come around."

"I don't think he will," Tony said, his voice dropping to hide the tremolo.

"I won't make you believe me, but don't close yourself off completely to the idea...all right?"

"He's an addict, Boss."

"Yes, he is. That doesn't make him scum."

"I know."

"That's what's makes this so bad, isn't it?"

"I won't go back in there, Boss."

"Fine. That's fine, Tony." Gibbs stepped back, letting him go.

Tony began to head toward the exit.

"Maybe this will even help."

Tony paused but didn't turn around. He just left.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim lay in bed. His mind couldn't settle on any one thing. He just kept flitting around...but always settling again on the things Tony had said. He felt like his whole body was out of his control. It wouldn't stop trembling, and he got cramps every few minutes.

The nurse came in and tried to talk to him, but he couldn't hear her. He couldn't think...

Ducky came in and talked to him, but Tim couldn't hear him either. His mind reeled...

He stopped reacting, trying to get his mind on one thought at a time. There were too many things in his head...too many and none at all. Why wouldn't they let him have just one more dose? How could they expect him to be able to explain himself when he was like this?

Ducky said something...through the fuzzy wall that had sprung up between Tim and the rest of the world. Tim didn't even care. All he wanted to was to get the control back. He was at the mercy of... His thoughts faltered...

The nurse was suddenly there...and the doctor...and Ducky...and Gibbs. Tim just stared at them, trying to find his way back to where he should be. Why couldn't he think?

_What's happened to me?_ Tim wondered. Tony's words rang in his head. They were strangely clear. A knife jabbing into his brain when everything else around him was mush...

Then, Abby and Ziva were there, staring at him, talking to him. It was like flashes with nothing in between...

Then, he was alone. The lights were low and Tim opened his eyes, surprised to find that they had been closed. The truth began screaming at him in his head. He couldn't understand the words at first.

Then...there they were...and they were in Tony's voice. _You're an addict!_

It was an accusation, screaming inside him over and over. _You're an addict!_

He had done this, brought himself to this point. _You're an addict!_

All the pain, all the problems...they were his own fault. _You're an addict!_

He had nearly killed Jethro because of his addiction. _You're an addict!_

Every dose over the course of the last fourteen years flashed through his mind, another accusation. _You're an addict!_

He couldn't live without it. He was addicted to drugs. _You're an addict!_

The lies he had told to hide his habit, the evasions...they scrolled through his mind, taking up flanking positions to the words Tony had shouted. _You're an addict!_

The tired look on Ducky's face, the revulsion on Abby's, the shock on Gibbs'...the hatred on Tony's. _You're an addict!_

When he became aware of himself again, he was curled in a fetal position on his bed, tears streaming down his cheeks. _You're an addict!_

He had lied his way into the job he'd always wanted and then he had lied and cheated to keep it. _You're an addict!_

He couldn't decide whether the pain he was feeling was physical or just in his head. Either way, it was tearing him to pieces.

_You're an addict!_

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Ziva and Abby found Tony at a bar. He was sitting on a stool, staring at the untouched drink in front of him...and if looks were able to kill...and the drink had been able to die...well, it would have been dead.

"How many has he had?" Ziva asked the bartender.

Tony answered. "This one. That's it."

"You have not touched it," she noted.

"Very observant, Officer David. I'll bet that's what made them pick you for Mossad. Such astute powers of observation probably put you in the upper echelons of Israeli secret police," Tony said, his voice dripping with angry sarcasm.

"Tony, what's wrong with you?" Abby asked, plunking down on the stool beside him. "Why weren't you at the hospital?"

"I was."

"You were?"

"I was."

"Where were you?"

"Trying not to kill McGee?"

"I don't think that would help."

Tony looked at Abby, his eyes fairly blazing. "I think it would have."

"What do you mean?"

"McGee's killing himself. Why shouldn't I help him along?"

"Tony, don't say that!" Abby said.

"Why not?" Tony asked, standing abruptly. "It's the truth! Lies are what put McGee in that bed!" He stalked out of the bar, leaving the drink on the bar.

Ziva looked at the bartender. "Was that really his only drink?"

"Yeah. Ordered it and then stared at it. He took nursing a drink to a whole new level."

Abby smiled and then jumped off her stool and ran after Tony.

"Thank you," Ziva said and followed the other two.

"Tony! Wait up!" Abby shouted, clomping after him. "Wait!"

Tony stopped and glared at her. "What, Abby?"

"Why are you so mad?"

Tony stared daggers and then kept walking.

"Tony, stop running away!" Abby begged. "Wait, Tony, please!"

Tony stopped.

"I'm mad at him, too, but I don't think it's for the same reason. What is it?"

"Tony, talk to us. Don't just stare at us like you were staring at your drink," Ziva added.

"Why am I mad? That's what you want to know?"

"Yes. We would like to know that," Ziva said.

"I'll tell you. It's because McGee is a liar, an addict and the most spineless weakling that ever walked the face of the earth. Just the sight of him makes me sick and I hate that I ever thought he was anything other than...than..."

"Your probie?" Abby asked. "Your friend?"

"Stop it, Abby. Don't try to make this about anything else."

"I'm not, Tony. You are."

"Aren't you mad?" Tony asked finally, looking at both of them.

"Yes!"

"No!"

Abby and Ziva spoke at the same time.

"You're not?" Abby asked. "Why not?"

"Because McGee is still a good person. What he did was wrong, but it happened and he was like this when we got to know him. I do not believe that he lied to us about who he was. I am sad and disappointed, but I am not angry."

"You're better than I am," Abby said. "I could kill him for what he did to Jethro."

"You felt that way when Jethro attacked him as well," Ziva said cynically.

"It's not about that! Using drugs is wrong, but it's worse when your habit hurts someone who depends on you. That's when it's a problem. Jethro needed Tim like a kid needs a parent, and Tim nearly killed him. That's why I'm mad."

Ziva looked at Tony who had not spoken during their exchange. "That is why _you_ are angry, as well," she said, comprehension in her voice.

"Because McGee hurt Jethro?" Tony asked with a horrible half-smile.

"No. He hurt _you_...and you counted him as a friend."

"I'm mad at him because he's an idiot, Ziva. He won't admit there's a problem even when it's staring him in the face. That's why I'm mad. Don't make this complicated."

"I do not have to. It is complicated all on its own."

"Look! McGee is acting like every druggie I ever busted on the force. I'm not going to see him join the ranks. You want to see it in that sentimental way, go ahead."

"You're running away from him, then?"

"Yeah. If you want to put it that way, yes, I'm running away...and I don't care if that makes me weak."

"It doesn't," Abby said softly. "I don't have the guts to leave him."

"Nor do I."

The three stared at each other. The anger seemed leeched out of the conversation...but the words were gone as well. It was as if the loss of anger had also caused a loss of purpose...so they stood in silence...

...until Tony's phone rang.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_You're an addict!_

Tim walked through the hospital hallways, dazed and hearing only the words in his head. There was only one way to stop, to break the habit. There was only one way to stop.

Blood ran down his hand from where he'd torn out the IV, barely feeling the pain. It stained his pants as his arms swung limply at his sides.

_It works, doesn't it._

He walked out of the hospital and got on the bus.

_Just once more...just one more time..._

He reached his apartment on instinct.

_You're as stupid as I think you are!_

Inside, he saw the box on the counter, a few of the pills had been missed in the frantic moments when Tony and Ziva had found him. They were right there.

_You're an addict!_

"This is my fault," he whispered, the first words he'd spoken aloud since Tony had left his room.

_You're an addict!_

The knife he'd used to open the box was laying on the counter as well. It was long...sharp...serrated. It was a Ginsu knife

_You're an addict!_

There was just one thing left to do.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Who is it, Tony?" Abby asked, curiously.

Tony looked at the display. "It says it's from McGee...but we didn't take his phone, did we?" he asked.

"No. We did not take anything besides the pills to give to the doctors."

A tiny curl of dread began to stir in Tony's gut as he answered.

"What do you want, McGee?"

"_You were right, Tony,"_ Tim whispered into the phone.

"I was right?" There was something about Tim that seemed off.

"_I'm an addict. I'm an addict. I'm an addict," _Tim repeated. He kept saying it over and over again, his voice rising with each successive repetition. He wasn't speaking quickly, and there seemed to be a rhythm to his words. The trembling was gone, but he was crying.

"Tim, stop it. What are you doing?"

"_I don't how this happened, Tony. I don't know...but it's my fault."_

"McGee, what are you doing?"

"_I'm stopping. I'm stopping for good."_

"McGee!"

"_I'm an addict!" _Tim sobbed. _"I'm an addict! I can't live without it! I don't even know who I am without it! I'm stopping now!"_ The phone went dead.

"McGee!" Tony shouted.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

It barely even hurt. The colors were bright, almost glowing. Tim watched his hand moving back and forth across his arm. He'd long since lost the strength to stand and was sitting on his bed instead. How much would he have to get rid of before he'd get purge himself of the drug he had used to destroy his life and damage the lives of everyone he cared about?

Even the bruise was obscured now, the purples and blues covered by bright red. Things were getting fuzzy again, but that was better, better than the pain, better than the realization of what he'd done to himself. It was so much better.

There wasn't much room left on this arm...but he couldn't switch to the other. His hand was slick. It wouldn't work. He had to get it all out of him.

Tim wished he could turn back the clock and just say no instead of giving into his anxiety...the anxiety he always felt. There was nothing...he couldn't do his job without the help of drugs.

_What am I without my job?_

His whole life was his job. There was his book, but his whole life was the job. His friends were there. He did his best work there. His hand moved to his pant leg. Soon, there were jagged slices in the fabric and his pants were red.

_I'm nothing._

Every cut into the fabric gave him a feeling of relief, of knowing that soon it would be done.

_No, I'm not nothing. I'm an addict. That's worse than being nothing._

The brighter the stain on his sheets, the closer he was to stopping the need, to breaking the habit, to ending the pain of admitting the truth.

_I'm not all right._

The knife slipped from his fingers. He couldn't grip it anymore. Black spots glittered strangely in his vision and he slumped down onto the bloody sheets.

_I don't want to be like this anymore._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Where do you think he is?" Abby asked.

They were all still staring at each other. Whatever Tim was doing, it was obvious that he wasn't at the hospital. He wasn't all there for some reason. Was he using again? How had he left? He had admitted that he was an addict...and no one was there with him. What did that mean? Tim taking the blame for something, even when it _was_ his fault, was rarely a good sign. Tim didn't take blame very well.

"What is he doing?"

"Where should we start?"

"Is he at home?"

The questions kept coming with no answers. Questions and no answers.

"Okay, stop!" Tony shouted finally. "We can't just stand here like idiots!"

"I will call Gibbs," Ziva said.

"I'll get Ducky. We can look."

"He's most likely at his apartment. He wasn't outside and I don't know where else he'd go," Tony said.

"Then, we'll head over there while we call."

"We?"

"Of course, we. I will not just wait to find out if Tim is all right," Ziva said with a dark smile. "I would like to see you try and stop me."

"Right. Fine." Tony didn't wait, but started to run. He was amazed that even Abby managed to keep up with him. "I'll drive. You guys call."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"You're telling me that Timothy McGee, known to be an addict, just managed to waltz out of the hospital without being stopped?" Gibbs asked. He was furious. He had been on his way to the hospital when Ziva had called him. Now, he was browbeating a nurse. If he had worked at the hospital, he would have headslapped her. "Why wasn't anyone watching him?"

"This is a large hospital, Agent Gibbs. We do our best, but Timothy was nearly catatonic at his last examination. The doctor left the room for five minutes. He ordered an increase in the dose of diazepam to be closer to the equivalent of temazepam he'd been taking. When I came to fulfill the order, he was gone." The nurse was obviously annoyed and worried herself, but she was not just giving into Gibbs' anger. "We are not omniscient, no matter how much we try to be."

Gibbs knew that was true. He knew that Tim could get out if he wanted to...but that didn't mean he wasn't furious that it had happened. Furious and afraid. Why would Tim have left? Where had he gone? His apartment was the most likely place, but the blood on the sheets and the hanging IV needle told him that Tim was not thinking, not logically anyway because he hadn't shown any care in pulling it out.

He was afraid that Tim was going to kill himself, whether by intent or by accident...the end result would be the same: the loss of a man who could have been saved.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was almost a repeat of the day before with the addition of Abby and the subtraction of Jethro. Tony pounded on the door.

"McGee!" He tried the knob and discovered something else different. It was unlocked. He burst into the apartment. It was quiet. Too quiet. Both Tony and Ziva couldn't stop themselves from looking to the kitchen where they had found Tim, subconsciously expecting to see him there again.

"Tim!" Abby called, her voice tight with worry. She ran ahead of Tony and Ziva...to the bedroom. So she was the one who got the first glance. She screamed...like a victim in a horror movie, high-pitched and wordless. She actually backed up to Tim's writing desk, which had a drawer open, the only thing to halt her backward progress.

Tony and Ziva ran to see and, while they didn't scream, they could certainly understand why Abby had, even with her obsession with death and her general lack of squeamishness.

Tim lay in the center of sheets that had been white before. Now, the only white thing was Tim himself. He seemed totally bloodless...because all his blood seemed to be staining the sheets around him. There was a bloody knife near his outstretched left hand.

"Abby..." Tony started and then had to stop and swallow. He tried again. "Abby...call...911." Abby seemed frozen, her hands over her mouth. She looked as though she was going to be sick. "Abby!"

Abby didn't move. She was as white as Tim. For a moment, both Tony and Ziva didn't know what to do. Who to help. Then, Ziva crossed to Abby and pulled her out of sight. Tony heard her get on the phone. He went to the bed, but he hadn't the slightest idea what he was going to be able to do. There was no anger, only confusion, fear, and grief. He knelt on the mattress and put his fingers on Tim's neck.

A pulse. Faint, slow, but present. Tony sighed in relief.

"Tim, why?" Tony asked.

To his surprise, Tim's eyes opened, narrow slits, fluttering lids.

"Have to stop," he said, his voice nearly inaudible.

Tony looked at the knife, at the bloody mess Tim had made of himself and could no longer hold back the tears. He could barely see as he ran into the bathroom to grab some towels...anything that _wasn't_ already soaked. When he returned, Tim was weakly grabbing for the knife again.

"No! No, Tim. This isn't the way," Tony shouted and pushed the knife away.

"Get it out," Tim mumbled.

The tears in Tony's eyes escaped. It was just like Tim to try and make things better...and to do it in the most extreme manner possible...but then, he corrected himself. No, Tim didn't normally do things like this. He took things too much to heart, but he didn't mutilate himself for it.

Tim's hand was feeling around.

"Help," he whispered.

"I'm not going to help you kill yourself, Tim," Tony retorted and began winding a large fluffy towel around Tim's arm.

"Gotta...stop..."

"Not like this. This isn't the way to stop."

"Only way."

Tony began wrapping towels around Tim's leg. He had no expertise to assess how deep the cuts had been and how much damage Tim had actually done beyond the attempted exsanguination. Besides, that detailed of an examination was something he desperately wanted to avoid. Tim wasn't helping all that much. His eyes didn't fully open but he tried to take the towel off and he kept searching for the knife.

Finally, Tony was too frustrated, too frightened and too angry to allow it. "McGee! Stop it! You're not helping!"

"Start...over...go back."

"Ziva!" Tony shouted.

Both Ziva and Abby came in, Abby a bit paler than usual, but composed. Abby sat beside Tim, ignoring the blood, and held his hands gently. Ziva rewound the towel on his arm.

"McGee, why did you do this?"

"Have to stop being..." Tim ran out of breath and his eyes closed again.

Abby tapped his cheek gently. "Stay with us, Tim. Please."

Again, the green slits showed themselves. Tim looked at Abby. "'m sorry. Jethro..."

Abby smiled but she had tears in her eyes. "You're an idiot, McGee, but that doesn't mean I'm going to hate you forever."

The green slits slid from her to Tony. "Don't leave. 'm an addict...Tony."

"I know, McGee. I already know that."

"Have to stop..." Tears leaked from the green slits and slid down to the bloody sheets. "...don' wanna be...this...'nymore."

"You do not have to be, McGee," Ziva said, softly. "But this will not help you. It will only make things worse. Let us help."

"No...help..."

"There is, but it will take some time. You must be patient."

"Get it out..." Tim whispered. He probably would have been screaming if he could, if he had the energy.

The siren of the second ambulance in as many days wailed up the street. Tim was carted away from a much bloodier scene than the day before, leaving Tony, Ziva and Abby standing in his bedroom, covered in his blood. They had saved him. He was still alive.

...and he was still an addict.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Tim didn't open his eyes when he regained consciousness. It wasn't the slow, steady moving from sleep to wakefulness that a person normally did. It was a jerk from darkness and oblivion to awareness and pain...and need. The shame of it made him cry again. He was a drug addict...and he had worked so hard to convince himself that he wasn't, that what he was doing was a good thing, that he had...

"Tim? Are you awake?"

That concerned voice only made him feel worse...and he already felt pretty bad. He was an addict. He didn't deserve concern. He didn't deserve...

"Tim, what's wrong?"

Tim still didn't open his eyes, wanting to go back to sleep when he could pretend that he didn't want to find the nearest pharmacy and drug himself up like John Belushi or Jimi Hendrix or Janis Joplin or...or like Devon. All of them dead. All addicts. Like him...

"Don't cry."

What had he been doing before the darkness? Things were fuzzy. He had a feeling that he had been on the verge of being able to solve everything, all at once...and that he had been stopped.

"Please, Tim, open your eyes."

Tim didn't want to open his eyes. Opening his eyes meant seeing that person looking at him, looking at the addict, knowing that all he wanted was drugs, that he had nearly...

"Come on, McGee. Please?"

That additional voice didn't help. The sobs became audible, but he refused to look at anyone. He had nearly killed himself...and it would have served him right if he had succeeded and...

Arms encircled him, holding him close, rocking him gently.

"Don't cry, Tim. It's going to be okay."

His arm hurt. So did his leg. ...but all that was muted beneath the weight of his addiction, the shame of the admission, the fight he still had to wage against his own body and mind...a fight he was sure he was going to lose. He'd never won before. Why should this time be any different?

"We're all here, McGee. Let us help."

Tim sobbed harder than ever. It wasn't right that they had forgiven him. It wasn't right that they were all there. He had betrayed them. He had lied and cheated and now he had a job he didn't deserve, friends he didn't deserve, a life he didn't deserve.

"Go away," he whispered.

"Why?"

"I should be alone." It was hard to talk; his crying seemed to have sapped all his energy. "I deserve..."

"McGee, open your eyes." That wasn't a request. It was a command. Tim had to obey orders.

He opened his eyes. Abby was hugging him. Everyone else was around the bed, looking at him...not hating him...and yet... He looked down at himself. One of his arms was heavily bandaged. Both were shaking. He closed his eyes again. Still shaking, still addicted. He began to sob once more.

"Tim, don't! Look at us!"

Tim shook his head and tried to push Abby away.

"Look at _me_!" he sobbed, pulling away from Abby's much-stronger arms. "I deserve to die."

"No! McGee, look at me!"

Tim shook his head again. "I'm an addict, a junkie. I'm addicted to drugs! Worse...I'm a liar. I'm..."

The familiar and strangely comforting headslap stopped his words. He looked up at Gibbs who was standing over him...not looking angry.

"You are dependent on drugs, McGee," he said. "You can stop. You don't have to be like this forever."

"No...I always go back to them. Always. Every time. I stop and start and stop and start and..." Tim tried again to get away from Abby. He was shaking more. "There's nothing I can do. Worthless."

"No, Tim," Gibbs said, sitting on the edge of the bed, forcing Tim to look at him. "No. You're wrong. We've been talking with your doctor the last couple of days and..."

"Days?" Tim interrupted.

"You've been unconscious for two days," Ducky said. "You lost a lot of blood and did plenty of damage."

"I just wanted to stop," Tim whispered.

"I know...but I also know something you don't."

"What's that?" Tim asked, flicking his eyes around at everyone in the room. He felt so nervous, so afraid...he wanted to jump up and run away.

"Your decision to attempt to slice your arm to ribbons was a reaction to the drugs you were given. The doctors made an error."

"What do you mean?" Tim's eyes were able to lock onto Ducky for a few seconds before roaming again.

"A successful withdrawal from benzodiazepines requires a slow and steady tapering of the drug. It also requires a long-term variant that can be given in extremely low doses. They chose to shift you over to diazepam."

"I'm still on drugs?" Tim asked. "But I don't–"

"Timothy, I appreciate your feelings, but for the moment, I would ask that you shut up and let me speak."

Tim blinked and then, to everyone's surprise, managed a weak smile. "Sorry."

"It's not a problem. Now, as I was saying, they shifted you to diazepam. However, not knowing how high your doses had gone, they did not give you the equivalent amount."

"What does that mean?" Tim's shakes had subsided for the most part in his attempt to follow Ducky's explanation, and although he was still twitchy and nervous, he wasn't panicking as he had before.

"It means that the extreme withdrawal you suffered before was not completely eased and you were in the grips of a physical reaction to not having enough benzodiazepine in your system. Your attack on yourself was a symptom of withdrawal, not a rational decision made by an intelligent man...which you are."

Tim looked down in shame. He looked at his arm. "I remember. I just wanted it to stop."

"I know, but do you deny that you were confused at the time?"

Tim thought back to his time in his bedroom. "I'm an addict, Ducky. Addicts aren't smart."

"Timothy, you seem determined to think the worst of yourself."

"That's all that's left. Everything else is a lie."

"What would you say if I told you that your current depression is also a reaction to your withdrawal?"

"I'm not withdrawing, not yet," Tim said. Then, he looked at Ducky, not shifting his gaze for the first time since opening his eyes. "I know what the symptoms of withdrawal are. I know what can happen if a person stops too quickly. I _know_, Ducky. I _know_! ...because I looked it up...once...a few years ago." The tears started again. "When...when...Kate died I...I thought that I might have a problem. I...I didn't know what to do, and I..." His eyes again roamed around the room. He didn't want to look anyone in the eye. "I wanted to tell someone...I really did, just to...I don't know...but I didn't. I went...went to the library and I...I looked it up. I found some stuff online and I know that...that it's possible, but I don't think _I_ can." His voice cracked. "I've never done anything without it. I lied to get into NCIS. It's the place I wanted to be...and...and I can't... What I've done...it's... I'm... no better than any of the people we've arrested. I just don't think that I can make it."

Gibbs sighed. "Did you think that you were addicted back then, McGee?"

"No...I don't know. I just wondered...and I thought...what if I was...what should I do? I couldn't...couldn't ask anyone for help. I didn't know how... Everything I read was about...people who'd been prescribed it...or people who were using other drugs at the same time. I wasn't like any of them. I hadn't been prescribed temazepam. I hadn't ever used any other drugs. I wasn't a druggie. I couldn't be...because...because...that's _not_ who I am!" Tim started shaking again as his anxiety increased. "I don't _want_ to be that person! I don't want be an addict!" He was shuddering and gasping for breath. "...but that's what I am. That's what I am. I'm an addict. I'm an addict." Tim leaned forward, rocking in agitation, his hands over his head, the repeated sentence fading to inaudible murmurs.

Abby put her arms around him again. "No, Tim. Don't say that."

Tim didn't seem to hear her. He continued to murmur unintelligibly.

"Are you sure they got it right this time?" Ziva asked, approaching the bed.

"Yes," Ducky answered shortly and then refocused on Tim. "Timothy. _Timothy_!"

Tim lifted his head, gasping for air. His eyes were full of terror as he looked at Ducky.

"Oh, dear. It's all right, Timothy. Breathe slowly. There's plenty of air. Abigail, if you wouldn't mind loosening your grip?"

Abby let Tim go completely, but Ducky shook his head and gestured for her to hold onto him.

"Timothy, just breathe. Ride it out. Listen to my voice. This is a feature of your withdrawal, of your body adjusting to a different drug, adjusting to a different level of drugs in your system. It's expected that something like this would happen. So, let it happen. You aren't going to die, whether you want to or not. This is not that time. Breathe and listen. Your body is dependent on drugs. It is true, but you are not a failure and you are not worthless and you don't deserve anything but a second chance at life. Breathe deeply, slowly. Don't panic. You're getting your second chance. Everyone deserves that and you're no different. Breathe."

Tim listened to Ducky and after a few minutes, his panic subsided. He took a few loud deep breaths and swallowed noisily. "I've ruined everything, haven't I," he said breathlessly.

Ducky smiled. "No, you haven't. ...and whatever you might have read, you _are_ experiencing withdrawal and it will last for weeks, probably months. You're not insane; you're not worthless. You are facing a huge challenge, but one that you _can_ surmount. Many people do. In fact, more people successfully withdraw from benzodiazepine addictions that from many other illegal drugs. Timothy, you have _not_ ruined everything."

Tim looked away from Ducky, and his eyes moved to Ziva, to Abby, to Gibbs and then finally rested on Tony.

"Tony...I..."

"Don't say it again, McGee," Tony said. "We only want you to get _help_. That's why we're here. Let us help and..."

"I don't know if I can do it."

"Maybe not alone...so ask for help, Probie." There was just a glimmer of a smile on Tony's face.

Tim looked at them all, tears still streaming down his cheeks, shame evident in his eyes.

"I need help," he said in the midst of a long exhale. "I can't..."

"You can, McGee," Ziva said, firmly. "You _can_."

"Help me," he said, staring at his lap, at his hands which were still twitching slightly.

"You only had to ask, McGee," Gibbs said. "We'll always help."

Tim squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment and then he repeated once more.

"Help me."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Vance looked at Gibbs across his desk, digesting what he'd been told.

"So...Agent McGee is addicted to drugs."

"Yes, sir."

"And he has been as long as he's worked at NCIS."

"Most likely, sir."

"He has admitted it?"

"Yes, sir."

"He's going to go through rehabilitation appropriate to his addiction?"

"Yes, sir."

"Voluntarily?"

"Yes, sir."

Vance leaned forward. "Agent Gibbs, are you purposely trying to tick me off?"

"No, sir," Gibbs said, straight-faced.

"Then, why is it that you are living up to the second b in your name?"

"Years of practice."

Vance rolled his eyes. "I don't have it in for McGee, as you well know."

"Yes, I know that, Director."

"Good, because I'd hate to lose him."

"You don't have to."

"I know my job, Agent Gibbs."

"I know you do, Leon. I just don't want..."

"What? You think that you acting like yourself will hurt McGee's chances of keeping his job? Unlike some people in this room and who formerly occupied this room, I don't hold grudges...and if I did, I wouldn't use my position to get revenge."

Gibbs didn't react.

"How much do you know about his drug use?"

"Only that until Jenny died it was sporadic. Since then, it's been constant and when we finally noticed he was escalating his dosage. If Tony hadn't figured it out, McGee might be dead right now."

"Well, then, I'm glad Agent DiNozzo was so astute. Addict or not, Agent McGee has been an invaluable part of this agency."

The words slipped out before Gibbs was even aware he was going to say them. "Yes, because we obviously want our agents more like McGee and less like DiNozzo."

The tone, the implied meaning...they hung in the air for a few seconds and Gibbs, although he didn't show it, was appalled at what he had just said. He and Vance stared at each other without comment as the statement continued to hang between them.

Then, Vance unexpectedly moved on. "I'm going to pretend that you never said that, Agent Gibbs, seeing as I know you didn't mean it."

Gibbs didn't react.

"I'm going to want to have a meeting with you and Agent McGee as soon as he is able. I'm assuming he's not ready for that yet?"

"Probably not."

"Very well. Keep me apprised. So far as I can see, he has not actively endangered any lives besides his own, and while this can't go unacknowledged, I see no reason to terminate his position here."

"Do you want me to tell him that, Director?"

"No. I don't want to be hemmed in by a statement made before I have all the facts. He's not fired. You can tell him that, but as to what the repercussions will be? I don't know myself as yet."

"I understand."

"Do you want me to send up Keating until McGee is back?"

"Not unless we need him."

Vance smiled wryly. "Very well, Agent Gibbs. That will be all."

Gibbs walked out, aware mostly of what he had said because it still shocked him that he had actually said it...and more than that, that he actually seemed to believe it at some level...and right now, that kind of support was the last thing Tim needed.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim tossed and turned in the bed...and Gibbs watched him. He knew that Tim hadn't been sleeping the last couple of days as his body adjusted to the change in drugs, but it was hard to watch him get so frustrated, and Tim was getting frustrated so _easily_. Gibbs thought back to what he had said to Vance. He still couldn't believe it, couldn't believe that he had that kind of feeling, even slightly, that he would use Tim's current state as a way of getting in a dig at Vance. He couldn't afford to slip like that with Tim...not now.

Suddenly, in a jerky, quick movement, Tim sat up, abandoning the pretense of sleep. Rubbing his hands over his head, he rocked back and forth for a few seconds before pulling down his right arm and staring at it. They had removed the bandages just that morning and the network of stitches and healing cuts crisscrossed over his arm from wrist to shoulder. The intensity of emotion that had prompted such an extreme action still blew Gibbs away, even with as much as he'd seen in his life.

Now, as he watched, Tim began to trace the numerous lacerations, following the pattern up and down his arm, seemingly mesmerized by what he'd done. Not wanting Tim to think about that too hard just yet, Gibbs stepped into the room.

"McGee?"

Tim was startled, as startled as if Tony had put another _When Dogs Attack_ video on the television. He immediately tried to cover up his reaction and took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself down.

"Hey, Boss," Tim said.

"How are you feeling?"

Tim shrugged and looked away.

"That good, huh?"

"Better than...than before." He lifted his arm slightly.

"But not great?"

"No." Tim stared at his hands which were mercifully still for the moment.

"Still not sleeping?"

"I got an hour or two last night. They told me that it will get better, but then it will get worse once I start tapering."

"One step at a time."

"Yeah."

"Your body will force you to sleep eventually, McGee. It will be easier if you don't stress about it so much."

"Yeah." Tim didn't seem comforted by that, only disconsolate. "Boss...I...there's something I have to say."

"No, McGee. No, you don't."

Tim looked up. "Yes, I do. I know you hate it. I know you don't like hearing it, but I need to. I'm sorry."

"McGee."

"No, Boss. I'm sorry." Tim's eyes were dry but full of the regret he felt. "I'm sorry for being such an idiot, for putting you all through this, for..."

"McGee," Gibbs said sternly, cutting him off. Tim stopped talking but stared at his hands, not Gibbs. "I won't deny that what you did was incredibly stupid and I won't deny that I would never have thought you capable of making that kind of decision, but all teenagers are stupid, you know. That's a universal truth. You just picked a really bad thing to be stupid about."

It was only Gibbs' light tone that made Tim laugh a little instead of cry.

"Yeah, I did. You know, I've thought about that first time...I've thought about it a lot." There was a hint of longing in his voice, quickly suppressed. "Devon thought he was helping me. I don't know if he was addicted back then or not...well...he...he probably...yeah, he probably was." The jerky speech was back. That meant Tim was nearly due for another dose. He'd be released in a couple of days, but the doctors wanted to be sure his body was stable before they sent him home...away from surveillance. "But, Boss...I didn't like him, but he...he was trying to help. He only wanted me to do well." He laughed at the irony. "He wasn't a drug dealer. He never charged me money for it and he was so careful about how and when to use it. It wasn't like...I don't know... What he did...what _I've_ done...it's wrong...I know that, but...but it wasn't because he...because I...we didn't _want_ to end up like this."

"I know, McGee."

"We didn't..._I_ didn't want this. Please, believe me, Boss."

"Tim, I believe you. We know."

There was a slight tremor in Tim's hands and he closed his eyes to get away from it...but he couldn't get away from the feeling by pretending he couldn't see.

"I want to tell you something, McGee. So I need you to listen."

Tim didn't answer and Gibbs watched as his hands clenched into tight fists.

"I hate it when they shake," he whispered. "Stop..._shaking_." He punched his fist into the mattress.

"McGee, _listen_ to me!"

"I'm listening. I'm listening," Tim said softly.

"Good. Then, look at me, please."

Tim lifted his head and opened his eyes. "I'm counting down, Boss. I'm counting down until the next time I get to take some. I know the time down to the minute."

"That's expected. McGee, listen."

"What?"

"You can beat this."

Tim shivered once. "Are you sure? I'm not."

"I'm sure. You. Can. _Beat_. This. I want you to remember that. I want you to repeat it to yourself if you have to, but I refuse to think otherwise...and I refuse to live through another year of Keating."

Even through his misery, Tim had to smile.

"So, you can beat this, McGee."

Tim bit his lip and nodded. "Right. I can beat this."

"Exactly...and we'll be there for you. We're not going to give up. Now, I can't promise that we're always going to say or do the right things and I can't promise that we're not going to get frustrated with you or bothered by you. We might say something hurtful...maybe even intentionally...but even if we do...we're not giving up. As long as you keep trying, we're not going to give up on you. Even if you feel like you can't, we know you can."

Tim nodded again, but less certainly this time.

"I won't be so explicit or so mushy again, McGee...so you'd better remember that I said this, okay?"

"Okay, Boss."

"Now, I won't rub salt in the wound by telling you to get some sleep, but at least you can try to relax."

Tim smiled weakly once more. "I'll try. It will be easier once they..." He stopped, ashamed.

"That's how it's going to be for a while, McGee. We've all accepted that."

Suddenly, Tim looked him in the eye. "I don't want to accept it. Accepting that I couldn't change something myself is what brought me here. I want to _hate_ what I'm doing. I _want_ to be ashamed by what I have to do in order to get away from this. I don't want to think of it as something that is...okay, understandable...acceptable. It's disgusting and I want to keep thinking of it that way. It's disgusting, shameful and _wrong_."

Gibbs wasn't sure what to say at first. Tim's face had twisted into one of anger and loathing. It was an expression people rarely saw, and he didn't like seeing it. He didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing...and he didn't feel qualified to say whether it was good or bad either.

"McGee?"

"What, Boss?"

"While you're thinking of your addiction as wrong, just make sure you don't start hating yourself, too."

Tim gave a soft chuckle. "Maybe I'm what deserves to be hated."

"No. _No_, McGee. You're not. Get that into your head right now. You can hate the drugs, hate the addiction all you want, but don't ever even _think_ that hating yourself is okay. Got that?"

"Yeah. Sure, Boss."

Gibbs had to leave, but his worry was not eased by Tim's answer. He pulled one of the nurses aside and mentioned it to her, just so that she was aware. As he left to go back to the rest of his life, he sincerely hoped that he hadn't lied.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

_...only six more hours. Six hours and two minutes..._

"So, you are officially discharged, but you need to head right over to the clinic before you go. Dr. Young is expecting you and you'll want to set up your schedule right away. She's experienced in helping people through benzo withdrawal; so you're in good hands."

Tim nodded but he was only half paying attention.

_Six more hours. I can wait six more hours, right? Only six more..._

"Tim?"

Tim looked at the nurse and nodded again. "Right. Over to the clinic." He had actually slept the night before and he didn't feel so jittery, but, perhaps because of the difference between the diazepam and the temazepam or maybe because he was no longer injecting himself, the desire to take his doses early was nearly always there. He knew he didn't need to and he didn't even really _want_ to take it, not with the rational part of him anyway, but still...

_Five hours and fifty-five minutes. That's not very long..._ Then, Tim realized what he was thinking and was disgusted by his own thoughts. He seemed to be more of an addict _now_ that he was trying _not_ to be one than when he had just been going along with things the way they were supposed to be done. It was a conundrum. Why was he doing this? Tim thought about that as he walked out of his room, finally fully-clothed. Then, his eyes strayed down to his arm, his bare arm, his arm that was so covered with stitches and cuts that there didn't seem to be much skin left. He didn't really remember doing that to himself. He remembered thinking that he was going to stop it all, that he was going to make it all go away, but he didn't remember the actual cutting. It was sheer luck that he hadn't cut any major arteries or veins, luck that he hadn't severed any tendons, luck that he hadn't bled to death. The cuts on his leg were much less serious, only because he had been weakening by that time and couldn't use as much force.

Tim walked blindly down the hall, paying only enough attention to his surroundings so that he could navigate his way to the clinic which was attached to the hospital. The clinic treated all kinds of addictions, but Dr. Young was a specialist in benzodiazepine withdrawal, which, while relatively uncommon in the US, was becoming more and more of a problem.

_Five hours and fifty minutes. I can make it..._ Tim hated himself for thinking that, for _feeling_ that need, for putting himself in a position where he was walking toward a drug clinic with enough cuts on his arm and leg to share them out to anyone who might be in need of an extra hole in their arms. _You're disgusting,_ he thought.

The door loomed up in front of him and for a moment, Tim couldn't make himself go in. He wished that someone was there with him, someone to _make_ him open the door, maybe even push him inside.

_No, you don't wish that. You got yourself into this mess and you're going to get yourself out of it,_ Tim told himself furiously. It was true. Tony had offered to take him home when he got discharged and Tim had deliberately told him the wrong time, wanting to do this part alone.

"So, are you going to stand in front of that door all day or are you going in?"

The voice behind him, startled Tim...a lot. He was really jumpy all the time, his body reacting to stimuli in extreme ways...any stimuli. He looked back over his shoulder and there was a man standing there, looking almost normal. Almost...but not quite. Chief among the differences between that man and another were the track marks running up and down both arms. In some places, there were actually _holes_ in his arms...but significant was the realization that most of them were in stages of healing. Tim met the man's gaze and watched as his eyes flicked down to Tim's arms...one normal, the other covered in self-inflicted lacerations.

"You going in?" he asked again.

"Eventually," Tim said and swallowed.

"First day?"

"Yeah."

"What are you on?" the man asked, with the same kind of tone anyone else would have used to ask the time of day.

Tim hesitated.

"I'm addicted to meth. I used others as well, but meth was always my old standby. In fact, I'm dying of it," the man said, still in the same tone. "I have a few months left, but I'm dying."

"Temazepam," Tim said, his voice soft. He didn't know what else to say.

"Jellies, huh? And what else?"

"Nothing else."

The man looked at him for a moment as if trying to decide whether or not Tim was kidding.

"That's weird," he said. "Most people use benzos with other drugs. You're lucky. You've got a chance."

"Yeah," Tim said. He didn't _feel_ lucky, but in the face of someone who was waiting to die, it was hard to say that.

"So...what got you to come here?"

"I tried to stop."

"And what happened?"

"I almost died."

"Tried to stop as in committing suicide?" He gestured to Tim's arm.

Tim shook his head. "No, that happened after. I tried to stop...threw all the pills away."

"All at once, eh?"

Tim nodded mutely.

The man whistled appreciatively. "Oh...withdrawal, big time."

"Yeah."

"So...why did you make yourself into a human strop?"

"Incorrect dosage when they shifted me to diazepam. Apparently, it's a common occurrence. Part of the withdrawal syndrome."

"But why did _you_ do _that_?" He pointed to Tim's arm again.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Why?" the man pressed.

Tim was feeling annoyed by the questions, but he still felt as though he had to answer a man who was dying.

_Five hours and forty minutes...that's all..._

"I wanted to stop. I figured if I could just get all of the drugs out of me, I'd be okay again."

"And you thought that bleeding yourself would be the best way?"

"Yeah. I didn't want to admit that I was an addict. I almost drove everyone away because I couldn't admit it...because I didn't _want_ to admit it."

"And you still don't."

"What?"

"You still don't. I can see it on your face. You're ashamed of the designation. You don't want to step inside this room because as soon as you do, you're admitting that you have a problem...admitting it to more than just yourself and a few friends or family. Once you go in here, you're an addict."

"I'm an addict," Tim whispered, echoing what the man said.

"Well, I'm an addict, too. I'm an addict out here and I'm an addict in there. It doesn't make any difference where I stand. I've killed myself but I'm going to stay clean as long as I can."

"Why? What difference does it make?" Tim asked, momentarily forgetting himself.

"To when I die? Probably not much. To how _I'll_ feel about myself, how my family will feel? A lot. In a few months, I'll be hospitalized permanently until my heart stops. I'm lucky enough to be someone whose family and friends didn't desert him when they found out. I owe it to them at least to be in my right mind and as clean as possible when I die."

Tim didn't know what to say again...so he stayed silent.

"Hey, you have a good chance of not being me, you know...but you have to start sometime. It might as well be now. The sooner you start, the easier it will be. The longer you use, the more permanent damage you'll do...no matter _what_ the drug is." Then, the man eased by Tim and opened the door. He stepped inside and the door closed behind him.

Tim stared at the closed door, thought about the man, about his arms.

_I could be him. Was that how Devon looked at the end? Did he know it was coming? Five hours and thirty-five minutes left..._ Tim swallowed once more, took a deep breath and stepped inside.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

There was a desk inside the door, just to the right. A man was sitting there, working at a computer. Tim couldn't see the man he'd talked to anywhere. Warily, he stepped all the way inside, chewing the inside of his cheek. It was a bright and sunny room, completely non-threatening, but there was something off-putting about it. Tim couldn't figure out what it was exactly. He looked around.

It was too quiet. No music. No chatting. There was a businesslike air about the place. This wasn't an AA meeting where people shared their problems and drew strength from each other. This was the place where the long haul began.

"Can I help you?"

Tim jumped and whirled to face the desk. He swallowed again. _Five hours and thirty-two minutes..._

"I...I have an appointment."

"Name?"

"T-Timothy McGee."

The man smiled encouragingly and Tim noticed that a nameplate on the desk declared that he was Jerry.

"Just have a seat over there. Dr. Young will be right out."

Tim walked over to a chair and sat down, fidgeting restlessly. He wished he wasn't here. He wished...well, he wished a lot of things actually. Chief among them was that he could make this go away by pretending it didn't exist.

"Timothy McGee?"

Tim jumped to his feet and looked over at the desk first. He wasn't sure why. The voice was female and Jerry was most definitely male, but he did. Then, he turned his eyes to the woman standing in the doorway.

"Y-Yeah...that's...that's me."

"Come on back."

"Thanks." Tim grabbed his bag and walked hurriedly after her. Stepping inside the room had been hard enough. Following Dr. Young back to what must be her office was something he couldn't have done if he had tried to think about it. Instead...

...he went after her and hoped for the best.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

"Have a seat, Agent McGee."

Tim sat down, on the edge of the chair.

"I've read your file. It's incredibly holey for a file of drug use. Care to elaborate?"

"I don't know what's in there," Tim said. _Five hours and ten minutes..._

"Then, why don't we start with you telling me your drug philosophy?"

"My drug philosophy? I don't understand."

"Why do you use drugs?"

"Drug. Singular. Only one," Tim corrected and then looked down.

"Considering the volume you must have used over the years, I don't think using the singular is accurate."

Tim flushed and didn't look up.

"Tell me how things go for you, Agent McGee. In order for this to help you really stop, we need to know why you use drugs, what triggers your desire, how you cope...how you justify your drug use. If you expect to just get all the drug out of your system and then you're fine, you're sadly mistaken. It takes a lot of work, a lot of patience, and a lot of endurance. Are you ready for that?"

"Honestly?"

"Yes, that would be nice."

"I don't know. I know I want to stop, but I don't know if I'm...strong enough to stop."

"Agent McGee, that's why you're here. So you _don't_ have to do it alone. A lot of it does depend on you. You take responsibility not only for your past actions but for your present and future actions as well. What we need to do here is set up your schedule. How often you come to the clinic for sessions, group and individual, how quickly or slowly you taper your doses...all these things depend on you. I will give input and there are certain things we expect of you, but you are not just passively accepting what we have to say. We are your guides, not your taskmasters."

"You keep saying we."

"I did say group therapy sessions, Agent McGee. No one can get through this alone. Even if you have a good support system, this is going to be hard. Now, I believe I asked you for your history."

Tim couldn't think of what to say.

"I'll help you. You started at seventeen, correct?"

"Yes," Tim whispered.

"Okay. Why?"

"I was stressed."

"How often?"

"During finals."

"Every semester?"

Tim nodded, still not looking at her.

"Agent McGee?"

"Yes?"

"Are you under the impression that what you're telling me is somehow worse than anything I've ever heard before?"

Tim didn't reply.

"I assure you, it's not. Even if it was, I still wouldn't be condemning you."

Tim nodded at his lap.

"Then, stop hiding your face and look at me."

Tim looked up and looked _toward_ Dr. Young, but he wasn't really looking _at_ her. She didn't press the point.

"Now, what about when you started working for NCIS?"

"A...a few times."

"Give me an example. This is still when you were stressed or nervous, correct?"

"Yes. Only then."

"Such as?"

"My first day...well, the night before my first day. I was so nervous, I couldn't sleep and I knew that I wouldn't be able to do a good job if I didn't get some sleep; so I...had one the night before."

"But you didn't always only use for one night."

"No. There were...some times when I...used it longer."

"When?"

"When Kate...she was...on the team. She died." Tim's eyes darted around the room. He didn't like doing this, but Dr. Young simply waited. "She was murdered by...a Mossad double agent. It wasn't even in the line of duty. It was all supposed to be over...but it wasn't. I started seeing her around NCIS. I couldn't go home because Ari was still out there...but after that...I just couldn't. It wasn't every night...well...it was...at first, but..." Tim took a deep breath. "It...it was about a month before I stopped completely."

"But you stopped? On your own?"

Tim nodded.

"What happened the next time?"

"I shot someone...a cop, it turned out. I thought he was shooting at me, but he wasn't. I didn't ever find out if I was the one who actually killed him...and even if I wasn't, I still shot him...twice."

"How long?"

"About a month."

"Every night?"

"Yeah."

"And then you stopped?"

"Yeah."

"What happened when you stopped?"

"It was hard. I had some bad days, but those ended and I went back to normal."

"Okay...so...what was different this last time?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you were using for nearly six months, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you started increasing your dosage...nearly to the point of overdose, correct?"

"Yes."

"So...you stopped every other time...what's different? How did you explain it to yourself?"

"It was just...the...the stress didn't seem to be going away. First, Director Shephard was..." Tim stopped; no matter how confidential this might be, he did not have permission to reveal the true nature of Jenny's death. "...she died and then, Director Vance split us all up, sent Ziva to Israel, Tony to Agent Afloat...me down to Cybercrimes. I thought it was because of what happened, but it wasn't. Vance came down after the first week and gave me...us...an assignment. It was the hardest work I'd ever done, and he ordered me not to tell Gibbs about it. I didn't want to keep a secret from my boss...even if he wasn't my boss anymore. So...the work was _really_ hard and I...I've never been good about lying. Then, Gibbs found out and...well, I know he wasn't happy about it. Then, we all got back and...and I kept screwing up, but I was the only one screwing up. It was like I'd forgotten everything I'd been doing for the last five years. And we had one bad case after another and...and Gibbs still was mad at me for lying to him, for hiding things. There just wasn't a time to stop."

"Agent McGee, why do you persist at this job when you know that it triggers the kind of stress that leads you to use drugs? Wouldn't another job be a better fit?"

Tim stood up immediately, ready to run. "You...you can't be saying...it's...NCIS is my life! I'd rather...be _dead_ than give it up."

"Agent McGee, please sit down."

Tim did so, only reluctantly.

"I wasn't suggesting that you quit your job. I'm just trying to get at why you chose it and why you have stayed. Since you obviously love your job, then what is it that really drove you to take so much temazepam that you became addicted?"

"It's just stress."

"No, Agent McGee. If it were 'just stress,' you would have...at least _tried_ to stop when worst of the stress stopped. You didn't do that, did you?"

"No, I didn't."

"So..."

Tim dropped his head again. "It's not their fault. It's my fault."

"What?"

"I...I'm afraid I don't fit anymore. I've never been as good at this stuff as Tony. Ziva came in after I'd been an agent for two years. She'd never had any experience before. She got better than me. She was working for Mossad while we were split up...and she didn't have any trouble at all going back to work...but I did. I feel like...like there's something wrong, like there's a...a wall or something between...between me and...and them. I'm afraid that I'm going to lose it all."

"Did you ever consider, Agent McGee, that perhaps that feeling was engendered by the drugs you were taking?"

That simple question was...it was as if he'd been sucker-punched. Tim felt himself sag and he wasn't quite sure why it was so devastating, but it was. With a loud exhalation, Tim leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands as he felt the tears well up in his eyes.

"I did this to myself?" he asked. "It's bad enough that I...but...this, too?" He swore softly. "This is my fault, too. Why do I keep ruining my own life?"

"Agent McGee." Dr. Young's voice was calm and kind. "By now, you should see that it's simply a vicious cycle. You worry about doing your job well enough; so you take drugs to help you work better. Unfortunately, some of the typical side effects of temazepam include impairment of memory, increased reaction time, inattention, overall a reduced ability to function. That means that you noticed the effect your long-term use was having on your abilities, but you didn't correlate it to using drugs. Instead, you just chalked it up to your own weaknesses...meaning that you kept taking the drug to help you function better when, in reality, it was making things worse. So you took more hoping to help...and on and on. You're on the path to getting all that back. You can, even if it will take a long time and a lot of work."

_Four hours and thirty minutes..._

"I still want it," Tim whispered after a period of silence. "What if I'm nothing without it? What if that's all...what if I can't do my job without that...help?"

"It's not helping you anymore, Agent McGee. It's killing you," Dr. Young said firmly. "It _will_ kill you if you continue on the road you were on before being admitted to the hospital. Do you _want_ to stop?"

"Sometimes."

"Not always?"

"Not right now. I just want to take the drugs so that I can feel normal again."

"That will pass. What happened to you when you were first admitted has put some snarls in your recovery. First, they shifted you over to diazepam too quickly and then they didn't give you enough. Normally, we would have made the transition to diazepam over the course of a couple of weeks. These things happen sometimes, and unfortunately, you're the one who has to pay for the mistakes. We'll just have to take that into account when we plan your withdrawal."

"Can I go to that instead?" Tim asked, hope warring with disgust.

"No, Agent McGee. At this point, it would not help you to go back onto temazepam. We'll simply leave you on the full diazepam a little bit longer before we step down."

"What if I fail?" Tim asked, voicing his deepest fear. He hadn't lifted his head since Dr. Young's question.

"Then, you try again."

"What if I fail again?"

Just as calmly and with no change in tone, Dr. Young answered, "Then, you try again. The majority of people who attempt to withdraw from benzodiazepines succeed on the first try, but those who don't often succeed on the second. It's just a matter of not giving up, even if you slip."

"I don't want to..."

"What?"

"I don't want to fail. I don't want to...do that again...do _this_ again." He raised his arm and then dropped it back to his lap where he began tracing the patterns of the cuts.

"Agent McGee."

Tim didn't reply or look up.

"Stop hiding your face. In here, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You are just one of the many who have slipped down the slope toward addiction. Now, you're ready to try to claw your way back out. Don't hide from that."

Tim slowly lifted his head. "I don't want to fail," he said again.

"You might. We don't plan on your failing but you have to accept that it's a possibility...and that it's not the end of the world if you do."

"I don't want to put my friends through that again."

"Good. Then, be honest with them...and with your family."

Tim was horrified. "No," he said pleadingly. "I don't want to tell them. I don't want them to know. I don't want to...to let them know that...that I...that I'm...an addict." It took every ounce of strength Tim possessed to keep him from screaming. "No."

"Agent McGee," Dr. Young said softly. "Your family loves you, don't they?"

"Yes."

"You love them?"

"Yes."

"Do you think they'll stop loving you?"

"I don't...I...no, I don't, but...I don't want to tell them." Then, like a child...he begged, "Please, don't make me."

"We don't _force_ people to do anything here. It depends on you, but, Agent McGee, you should tell your family. Think about it...don't say yes or no just yet. You have time."

Now thoroughly agitated, Tim sprang to his feet and started pacing, filled with nervous energy. Dr. Young didn't appear put off by that. Instead, she picked up a piece of paper...and then she waited while Tim continued to pace back and forth. He wasn't speaking and neither was she. After a few minutes, Tim felt calm enough to stop and look at her in embarrassment.

"Are you ready, Agent McGee?"

Tim swallowed and nodded. He sat back down.

"Okay. Let's take this one week at time. Now, I'll give you feedback and information to help you, but this has to be something you agree with...and it's not set in stone. If, when you get to the point that it's time to step down the dosage and you don't feel ready, come and talk to me and we can put it off. The one thing you really can't do once you start is step backwards. Always move forward...or at least stay still. We won't ever increase the dose. Okay?"

"Okay. Okay." Tim took a deep breath and scooted forward to start planning the schedule to get him off temazepam.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tony walked down the hall determined to play the role of the calm and collected friend. He'd been unusually angry the last few days...even Tim's admission of his addiction hadn't lessened his anger much. It had been set aside in the face of Tim's near-death experience, but once he had recovered...so had Tony's anger. He wasn't sure where it was coming from, but it was there and...it was simmering. However, he didn't think it would help much right now.

That's why he was so set on keeping his cool this time around. His anger last time had resulted in Tim nearly killing himself. Tony knew that it was more than that, but his anger was probably the catalyst.

He paused in front of the door for a few seconds, took a deep breath and stepped inside...

The room was empty, no sign that Tim had even_ been_ there. The anger that had been simmering surged to a rolling boil. Where was he?

"Can I help you?"

Tony spun around at the voice. "Where's McGee?"

"Who?"

"The man who was in this room," Tony said, deliberately. "Where did he go?"

"Oh, he was discharged..." The nurse consulted her chart. "About an hour ago."

"Where did he go?"

The nurse shrugged. "I assume that he left."

"No!" Another nurse joined them. "He had an appointment with Dr. Young."

"An appointment? I was supposed to pick him up."

"He's at the clinic...or at least, that's where I _assume_ he is. You should check there."

Tony nodded. "Where's the clinic?"

Both nurses pointed him in the right direction and Tony stormed off, his anger fueled by his worry. Tim had _lied_ to him again. Not even a week after admitting that he was an addict and he was _lying_. The nerve. After they'd all tried to help him and be there for him and _again_ with the lies! Well, that was going to stop...right now!


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Tim stopped in surprise when he walked out of Dr. Young's office into the reception area.

"Tony! What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I was going to ask you the same question, McGee." There was no overt antagonism, but Tim, even distracted as he was caught the edge. Tony was angry...really angry.

"I...had an appointment here. You're early."

"Oh, am I?" Tony asked, sarcasm thickening his tone. "Funny, because I was under the assumption that you were being checked out about now, not over an hour ago."

"Tony, I..." Tim began.

"You ready to go?" Tony asked, cutting him off.

"Yeah. I'm ready."

"Agent McGee," Dr. Young said from behind him.

Tim turned, glad to be looking away from Tony's anger, if only for a minute.

"Don't forget what I told you, and call if you're having difficulty."

Tim nodded and took the completed schedule she held in her hand. Then, he followed Tony out of the clinic. Tony didn't say a word and Tim was afraid to break the silence himself. Instead, he walked meekly, just half a step behind Tony. He knew why Tony was angry. He had known when he had decided to make sure no one was there for his first meeting that they wouldn't understand his need to do it himself. He just didn't know how to fix it because, to be honest, he didn't understand _why_ Tony was as angry as he seemed to be...and also...

_Three hours and thirty minutes..._

They reached the car with the same silence and Tim got in, holding his bag in his lap, wanting to speak but having no clue what he should say, or even what he _could_ say at this point. Tony didn't bother to speak either. He just drove, his eyes on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that it seemed they must be leaving permanent impressions. Finally, after ten minutes of unbroken silence, Tim couldn't stay quiet anymore.

"Tony?"

"Don't," Tony snapped. His voice was cold.

"Don't?" Tim asked, confused.

"Don't. Don't bother trying to explain, McGee. Don't try to tell me that you had a good reason for lying...again. Do you even know _how_ to tell the truth anymore? Did you ever? Or are you so used to pretending that you can't fathom being in the real world?"

The venom took Tim completely by surprise...and for the first time since he'd been admitted, he felt the faint stirrings of anger himself...but also figured that he deserved this, and maybe it would help Tony to have the chance to yell at him.

"I wasn't..."

"Didn't you hear me, McGee? Or are you so hopped up on drugs that you can't pay attention either? We gave you a _chance_, McGee. You asked for help and we gave it. And how do you pay us for that? You lie..._again_! I've had to watch you almost die twice in the last couple of weeks, and I'm not interesting in walking in on you dying again because you've lied. Okay? I won't put myself through that. Don't ask for help if you're just going to stab me in the back."

This was so cruel that Tim wanted to yell...something. He wanted to defend himself but he didn't think Tony deserved that...so he stayed silent, hoping it would defuse the situation. It didn't seem to help at all.

"On second thought, tell me, McGee. I'd love to hear your justification for lying to me. Maybe you could even put it in your book. Your next big work of fiction, like the rest of your life."

That was it. Enough. Tim didn't care if he deserved it. He couldn't bear it, not on top the steadily increasing desire to take his drugs, not on top of the realization that he was going to be trying to get rid of his addiction for the next six to eight months, not on top of the creepy, crawly sensations that made him feel that he had to run, had to...to do something...anything. He couldn't bear it.

"Tony, stop the car," Tim said, softly, trying to keep Tony from hearing the tears, the agitation...the addiction.

"What?"

"Stop the car. Pull over."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not riding with you."

"Oh, yes, you are," Tony said, not in a kind or caring way, but in a confrontational tone that only made Tim's desire to get out of the car increase.

"No, I'm not. Pull over, or I'll just jump out anyway." Tim tried to keep his voice calm but he could feel the agitation building to the point at which he felt he was going to explode. It was coming out in his voice...and in his decision to open the car door, ready to carry through on his threat.

"McGee, are you out of your mind?" Tony asked, pulling to a stop so quickly that the cars behind him slammed on their brakes. Horns honked as they maneuvered around the suddenly-motionless car.

"I'm walking," Tim said and got out. "I'm not listening to you anymore."

Tony pulled over into an actual parking space and got out as well. Tim increased his pace and Tony nearly had to run to catch up.

"What, don't you like hearing your life summed up?" he asked, sarcastically.

Tim stopped abruptly. He didn't pay attention to the people walking by, to his bag which fell to the ground. He paid attention only to the blood rushing through him, filling him with anger at least as hot as Tony's was cold. His addiction was still too strong and his emotions out of control.

"Stop it!" he yelled. "Stop talking at me like I'm one of your convicted felons! Stop treating me like I'm nothing! I already know that I'm nothing! I already know what I've done. I know it so thoroughly that I wish you hadn't saved me...either time."

It was Tony's turn to remain silent...and Tim's turn to yell. People were staring as they walked by, but Tim didn't care.

"What do you want me to do? What do I have to do to...whatever? Do you want me to announce it to the whole world? Would that help?" Tim shouted. He turned around and grabbed a woman walking near him by the arm. "I'm a drug addict. Did you know that?" She pulled away from him and kept walking. Tim took a step and made eye contact with a couple who were trying to pretend they couldn't see him. "I'm a drug addict! You want to see the scars from when I almost killed myself? You want to see?" Tim turned back to Tony. "I'm an addict, Tony! I'll say it again...and again...if I have to. I'll make flyers! I'll tell every person I see!" He pulled off his jacket, baring his slashed arm and flung his arms wide as he began shouting. "I'm a drug addict! I'm addicted to drugs! I almost killed myself because I used drugs! I–"

Tony grabbed him. "McGee, stop it!" He pulled Tim back toward the car, stopping to pick up his bag. Tim stopped shouting. "Get in the car," he urged.

Tim pulled back. He was now shaking...and he hated it when he shook. It was the lack of ability to control himself that the drugs had taken from him and it was getting close to the time when he would be taking his next dose. "No. I won't. I won't get in the car with you. I know you're mad at me...and I know why. I knew you would be angry when I told you the wrong time to come...when I didn't tell you about going to the clinic. I knew it...but I didn't know it would make you _hate _me. You just...you don't...you...you..." Tim felt himself losing control and he stopped to breathe for a second or two, closing his eyes and trying to stop the tremors. "You don't...you couldn't understand why I had to do that...and I didn't want to explain."

"Why not?" Tony shot back. "Haven't we already done enough to show you that we're willing to help you? What does it take?"

"It wasn't that! I knew you'd all be willing to help...but I did this to myself." Suddenly, Tim felt in control again and he stopped shouting, although the tremors didn't cease. "I can't blame anyone for what I did. I can't...I wish I...but I was so afraid, Tony. I was so afraid..."

"Afraid of what?" Tony's voice was still unsympathetic but no longer scathing.

"The only thing I have...the only thing of value I can offer is...is what I know in my head. I was...on the verge of...I was flunking. I was going to fail at the only thing I could ever do." Tim stared at his hands and then at the people who were walking again, not paying noticeable attention to the two men standing on the sidewalk. "If I failed...I would have flunked out of MIT. I would have proven to everyone that I was as big a wuss, as much of a weakling as they thought I was...that I was as stupid as _I_ thought I was. What else could I have done with my life? I was...so afraid of letting everyone down, of throwing all my parents' work back in their faces, of letting down my teachers who thought I was so smart. I was afraid...and instead of just dealing with it," Tim heard the self-loathing saturate his voice, "I let my oh-so-cool roommate talk me into...destroying myself."

Tony didn't say anything.

"I can't tell you how many times in the last week I've wished I hadn't done that. I can't explain how it feels to know that I voluntarily did this to myself. I can't...and I'm tired of trying. I just found out that I'm going to be going through all this for at least six months. I'm going to be an addict. I'm going to have to live with that for the rest of my life." Tim turned away. "Worse even than that...at some point..." He fought back the tears and tried to seize on sarcasm. "...I'm going to have to tell my parents that their son...their amazing and successful son...is scum. I..." He turned back and pulled his bag from Tony's limp grasp. "I...don't blame you for being disgusted with me...but I won't take back what I decided to do. I got myself into this. I should be responsible for getting myself out...and I'm not getting back in the car."

"McGee..." Tony began, his voice taking on a different tone, but one Tim couldn't identify.

"No." Tim sniffed once and took a deep breath. "No. I can see that this is hard for you...and I don't want to make it harder. Tony...I might fail. I might break down at any moment and drug myself into oblivion again. I might. You're mad at me for the lies...for my...stupidity. I am, too...but you can get away from it, and if you need to, I'm going to let you because..." Here, Tim smiled weakly. "...because I can't take any more of what you've said. I can't. It's bad enough that I believe it. I don't want to know that everyone else does, too. So...I'm going to walk home. I'm going to take my next dose of diazepam in exactly three hours and six minutes...and I'm going to wish that I wasn't doing it this way, that I was still shooting up, that you hadn't found out, that I had died instead of knowing that I'm addicted to drugs. That's what I'm going to do. I don't know what you're going to do, but...I'm sorry...but I don't have it in me to care right now. I hate that I don't...but I don't. I...don't...care."

They stood, staring at each other, for about a minute. The cars and people around them might as well have not existed for all the notice they took.

"So..." Tim began, "...go home, Tony. I'm not getting back in the car. I'm responsible for what I did to myself...and for what I did to all of you...and I won't let you help me when it's only going to hurt the both of us."

Tim turned around and began to walked down the sidewalk, half hoping that Tony would stop him and apologize...or punch his lights out...but he didn't do either thing and Tim couldn't bear the thought of looking back to see what he had done instead. He just hitched his bag more securely on his shoulder and kept walking.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

After half an hour, Tim sat down on a bench on the sidewalk and regretted that he was still walking. He wasn't quite sure why he was. Pride? Stubbornness? Idiocy? It was probably the last one. He hadn't put his jacket back on. His arm with its intricate network of slashes was visible to the world...which probably explained why people had stared at him and then quickly looked away. Regardless of what might have happened, it made him look unhinged. Since he _was_ unhinged, that fit. He wasn't announcing his addiction, but people sure knew that he wasn't normal.

_Maybe I _could_ make flyers,_ Tim thought to himself.

Right now, more than anything else, he was tired. His doctors would probably be upset that he was walking so far after his near-exsanguination. Besides that, his leg which could remain conveniently covered was aching. So...he was sitting on the bench resting until he could start walking again. He didn't know how much further it was to his apartment. He could always get on the bus or take a taxi or something like that, but he didn't want to. He didn't deserve to.

Tim sighed with that thought. Knowing now that Tony thought all that about him...it hurt more than he had thought it would. He'd often felt unappreciated by Tony, but never hated. Tony had seemed to really _hate_ him and that hurt...almost as much as his leg did at the moment.

The pills were in his bag. He could hear them rattling around in the bottle every time he took a step and it was really annoying.

_Two hours and fifteen minutes..._

Did the others feel like Tony did? They hadn't expressed anything like that. It hadn't been...overt. Abby had lectured him about Jethro...of course. Ducky had become frustrated, trying to make him see reason. ...but did they hate him like Tony did?

_Will Mom and Dad hate me?_ The thought was enough to drive Tim to his feet and he started walking, longing for the pain to blot out his thoughts.

He got his wish. Ten minutes into his walk, his leg really started to hurt, throbbing with each jarring step.

_Weakling,_ he berated himself. _Suck it up._

Even so, he started keeping an eye out for another bench on which he could rest. Another five minutes...

_Two hours..._

...and he saw a bench. He walked to it and sat down, sighing with relief...but with the relief came the remembrance of what had transpired and now, he felt like crying again. He had alternated between tears and rage over the past hour. Each extreme left him feeling put upon, tired, dirty...and he couldn't seem to settle his thoughts on any one feeling.

"McGee!"

Tim lifted his head in surprise and saw Ziva leaning out across the front seat of her car.

"Would you like a lift?"

_Yes. Oh, please, yes..._

"No. I don't," Tim answered and looked back down at the sidewalk. He was surprised, a few seconds later, when he saw Ziva's feet right in front of him.

"You don't?"

"No."

"Why not? You look tired...and in pain."

"I am."

"Then, why not?"

"Because."

"McGee."

"Ziva, thanks for the offer, but I don't want a ride. I don't need your sympathy and I don't need..."

"...a friend?" she finished for him.

"Don't be nice, Ziva," Tim warned. He couldn't take undeserved kindness at the moment.

"Tony told me what happened."

"Did he."

"Yes. He did."

"Great. I still don't want a ride."

"You should not be hurting yourself."

Tim laughed humorlessly at that statement. "Too late...already did that," he whispered. "I've been doing little else with my life since I was seventeen."

"That does not mean you have to _continue_ hurting yourself."

"Just hurting in a different way, now."

"McGee..."

"If you're going to try to make everything better, Ziva, save your breath. It's not going to happen," Tim said bitterly. "Things aren't better and they're not going to _be_ better for a long time...maybe not ever."

"I could not make everything better even if I wanted to."

"No, you couldn't," Tim muttered.

"Do you want us to hate you, to leave you alone? You asked for our help before. Do you not need us now?"

Tim didn't answer, and he felt Ziva put her hand on his back. It was almost enough to make him cry.

"That was not a rhetorical question, McGee. I need to know. If you want us to hate you, to leave you alone, you must say it because I will keep trying otherwise."

"Why?" Tim asked. "Why aren't you mad at me? Why don't you hate me? Why is it that you haven't–?"

"Because what happened to you is not right no matter _how_ it happened. I would like you to live free of your addiction."

"But why do you care?" Tim asked, his voice cracking on the last word. "I'm such a...I'm a failure. I've ruined everything. I've...I've ruined myself and hurt you guys...and...why?"

"You have not ruined everything. You are not a failure. Yes, you hurt us, but you are trying now to heal."

The silence dragged on for two long minutes.

"You did not answer my question, McGee. Do you _want_ us to hate you? Do you want to be alone? Do you not need our help?"

"No," Tim whispered.

"To which question?"

"All of them. I can't do this alone, Ziva," Tim admitted. "I need your help...but..."

"Do not talk of deserving it. We have already decided that you _do_ deserve it. Is this because of what Tony said to you?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Don't call me a liar," Tim said and started to cry. "...but that's what I am. Tony's right. I'm a liar. Ziva...I just..."

"What, McGee?"

"One hour and forty-three minutes. That's how long...and I know it...and it's all I want right now. That's all I want...and I...I hate it. I hate it and I want it...and..." Feeling thoroughly agitated...again...Tim tried to stand, but Ziva's surprisingly strong arm held him down.

"Do not run, McGee."

"I just need to walk, Ziva," Tim said, hearing how quickly his words tumbled out of his mouth. "I just need to..."

"You need to sit here and listen to me."

Deprived of the outlet of walking, Tim felt himself start to shake. "No, Ziva. Just let me walk," he begged. "I need to walk, need to..."

Now, Ziva turned him to her and shook him once. "No. Do not give in to that. It is the drug which is making you feel that way."

"I know...I know...just...just...let me..."

"No. Listen to me, McGee."

"I can't. I can't listen. I have to move...I have to..." Tim tried to pull back from her. In normal circumstances he wouldn't be feeling this way, but the exertions, the stress and the emotional excess had all conspired with Tim's addiction.

"Just once more," he whispered and then pulled away, covering his face in shame.

Ziva scooted over next to him, hesitated and then put her arms around him, holding him even as he tried to get her to let go. She could feel the tremors rippling through his body.

"Let me help you, McGee."

"I don't want to be an addict, Ziva," Tim said. "I just want to be me...but I don't know who I am anymore."

"Yes, you do. You are still the same person. I refuse to believe that you are that much different."

"I want you to be right, but...how can you know? How can I? No one has really known me without..."

"You were not taking drugs the entire time. If you had been, you would be dead already. Therefore, you were _you_ many times in the last four years."

"You're so..."

"Correct?" Ziva asked, smiling.

Tim pulled back and looked at her, the expression on his face shifting between sorrow and humiliation.

"Logical. I can't be. Not about this. This is me. It's not some guy we picked up, some random criminal we arrested. This is me...and I can't be logical about what I've done. ...and I can't understand why _you_ are being so accepting and Tony is...is not."

"We are different people, McGee. Now, will you let me give you a ride?"

Tim shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I...I'm afraid that...if I'm sitting in my apartment...I won't be able to wait another...hour and thirty-five minutes before..."

"Will you let me help you?"

"How?"

"I think I can be distracting for ninety minutes. Do you disagree?"

Tim felt his face start to burn and he ducked his head.

"Do you disagree, McGee?" Ziva asked and he could hear her grinning.

"N-No."

"Then, allow me to give you a ride. I do not like the idea of you feeling pain when it is completely unnecessary."

"Ziva, I don't think that..."

"I will not leave you alone, McGee." Ziva stood and held out a hand. "Trust me."

"I do trust you. I don't trust myself."

"Well, I _do_ trust you," she said smiling, her hand still extended. "So...you may trust me that I trust you."

Tim couldn't help smiling in response...and finally, he nodded. "Okay."

"Good. Now, come," Ziva said, beckoning imperiously.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The ride to Tim's apartment was silent and Ziva tried to cover her concern. Tony hadn't said much, but he didn't have to. His tone and Tim's actions both told the story much better than words could have. Ducky had already spoken to them all about when Tim would be most vulnerable and what his triggers might be. Ziva figured that Tony's words, whatever they might have been specifically, had not helped Tim all that much.

When they reached his apartment and began the long ninety minutes of distraction, Tim's mind was obviously elsewhere...and Ziva knew that it was probably on the pills in his bag. She wondered, as she had more than once already, if Tim was strong enough to do this on his own, even with their help.

That Tim seemed to be wondering the same thing did not make her feel any better.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

It was late, nearly midnight. ...and Tony opened his car door and then closed it for the fiftieth time. He was still mad at Tim, but now, that anger was tempered by what Tim had said, by how he had acted, by the realization that Tony couldn't possibly hate Tim as much as Tim hated himself. The lights were still on in Tim's apartment. It was strange to realize that just that morning he had been so sure that he could play the part of a good friend...and then, had not only _not_ played the part, hadn't even _felt_ the part. He wanted to slug Tim in the face, to scream at him and make him _see_ reality as...as Tony saw it.

After he had called Ziva, telling her where Tim was and an abbreviated version of what had happened, he had gone driving...and then, he had come to Tim's apartment intending to...what? Yell some more? Apologize? He didn't know, but he could admit to himself now that he was afraid of going up there, afraid that Tim would be dead this time. He wouldn't be, of course. Tim wasn't stupid, for all that he'd _acted_ very stupidly. He'd committed himself to getting clean, and when Tim committed himself, he went all the way.

At least, Tony had _thought_ Tim was like that. Therein lay the problem: he didn't know how to think of Tim anymore. Of the two officers he'd known with drug problems, one was dead and the other was serving a twenty-year prison sentence for possession and distribution of cocaine. Now, here was Tim, supposedly getting clean...and lying.

He opened his car door again...and then, again, closed it. He was surprised at his own reaction...especially when _Ziva_ was being so understanding. Ziva who had been the one to say that Tim was lying during the Benedict case. She was the one who now believed him, who now was supporting him. And what was Tony doing? Questioning every single moment he had known Tim, reanalyzing every interaction within the last six years. When had he become so cynical?

_After La Grenouille and Jenny being killed and the team getting split up..._

Tim wasn't like those people. He knew that. He didn't use people. Tim wasn't sneaky and underhanded.

_...or so I thought,_ Tony amended. The Tim he had thought he knew was someone who couldn't possibly have gotten away with using drugs...wouldn't have even _considered_ it. He's the guy who said he hadn't enjoyed marijuana. Why couldn't he see Tim like Ziva was still seeing him?

He opened his car door...and closed it.

Then, to his surprise, Tim came out of his building and down the steps. He stopped at the sidewalk and looked back and forth as if unsure of what he was doing. Then, he turned left and resolutely started walking. Tony watched him for about five seconds before opening his car door yet again...and this time, getting out.

"McGee!"

Tim stopped for a moment but didn't turn around.

"What do you want, Tony? I'm still alive," he said, his voice unnaturally soft. "And I'm still an addict. I don't think there's anything else you might need to say to me." He kept walking.

Tony paused before forcing himself to find something joking to say.

"I'm just checking up on you, Probie."

It didn't work. Tim didn't reply. He kept walking and refused to look at Tony.

He took another shot at it. "Most people are in bed this time of night."

"I know."

"Why aren't you?"

"Why aren't _you_?"

"Like I said, checking up on you."

"Or maybe _you're_ a closet drug addict, too. Maybe leaving one's home in the middle of the night is another symptom of drug addiction. Maybe it's the cover of night that makes it possible for us addicts to continue our criminal lifestyles." There was no overt sarcasm in Tim's voice. It was too soft for that. As soft now as it had been loud earlier that day, and yet, Tony could hear the implicit accusation as if Tim had been shouting it. This was also a Tim who was much more in control. There was an edge of...something in his voice, in the way he moved, but he was much more like the Tim Tony...had thought he knew.

"Maybe...but I think it's vampires who use the cover of night. Where are you going?"

"I'm not going to see a drug dealer," Tim retorted.

"Okay. Where are you going?"

"Why do you care?"

"Why aren't you answering?"

Tim stopped walking. "What is _with_ you, Tony? Just leave me alone, okay? I've already told you that I'm not going after more drugs. I'm not going to kill myself. What more do you want to know?"

Inwardly, Tony winced. Tim had shifted Tony's priorities immediately from concern about how Tim might be doing, might be feeling, to concern about his behavior. By the light of the streetlamp, Tim was looking at him rather like many of the drug users he'd picked up as a cop: an awareness that Tony's presence was only because they were doing something illegal, not because he cared.

"McGee, I..."

Tim stopped just short of rolling his eyes and turned back to continue his walk. "I'm walking because I haven't gone to sleep before three a.m. since I was last admitted to the hospital. I'm walking to distract myself because, like or not, Tony, I'm an addict, and I'm still adjusting to taking diazepam. It's getting better, but I still have moments when I can't stay still. It took Ziva forcing me to watch game shows for an hour and a half for me to avoid taking my dose early, just because I wanted to. Even then, I couldn't focus. She won." His pace increased. "They tell me that the craving will go away in a week or so...but it could come back again when I start tapering. It's a rare side effect, but because of what happened... I need to talk to Abby about getting Jethro back...even though he's at Gibbs' place, but I'm afraid to seeing as I already nearly killed him. What if I do that again? I have to meet with Vance on Monday, and that terrifies me. What if he fires me? So...I really don't have time for you to start attacking me again, okay? Try again later."

Tony reached out to stop him, but Tim flinched away.

"McGee, that's not why I came."

"Really."

"Yeah, really."

"So, why? Tony, if you hate me so much, I don't get why you're here."

"I don't hate you, McGee."

Tim finally stopped walking, but he turned away from Tony, not toward him. "Then, why did you say all that to me?" He stopped, waiting for Tony to answer, but Tony couldn't think of what to say. "I knew you'd be angry if you found out that I'd lied about what time to pick me up. I knew that I was risking you getting mad again, but can't you see that I needed to do this myself?"

"No, McGee, honestly, I can't."

"It's like you said. I had to admit that I'm an addict. ...and I had to take the first steps back by myself. I know that I'm incapable of doing this all on my own, but I wanted to take one single step alone...to see if I could." He looked up, searching for the words. "I've had a crutch for so long that I don't know how to do _anything_ difficult by myself. Now...now, I have to figure it out again. I don't know how to cope with stress or with...the kinds of things that will happen all the time at work. What if I can't do it? I don't know what I'll do, Tony. If I have to do these things by myself, I'd better start somewhere."

"So you don't think I had a right to be mad about it?"

"You had a right. ...but what you said, Tony...is that really what you think? Do you really think that everything in my life is a lie?"

Tony opened his mouth to answer, to say no, to say anything to take back what he _had_ said before, but he didn't get a chance.

"...because I'm afraid that you're right." Tim started walking again, forcing Tony to keep up with him. "I'm afraid that I don't _know _who I really am. Maybe I'm not the person I've always thought I was. Maybe I'm as much of a made-up character as you think I am. Maybe in real life...maybe I'm nothing."

"You're not nothing, McGee."

The soft laugh conveyed almost anything but amusement. "This is a quick turnaround. Are you _sure _you're not on drugs, too, Tony?"

"No, I'm not on drugs," Tony said seriously. "I can't justify what I did, what I said. I admit that I was mad, but I shouldn't have said all that. I'm sorry, McGee."

Tim stopped walking again and didn't look at Tony. They were in between streetlights and Tim's face was shadowed.

"Do you believe it, though?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

"I don't want to," Tony said, glad that he couldn't see Tim's face.

"I don't want to, either. Of course, I want to wake up in the morning and have it all be a dream, but it's not...and unlike you, I can't get away from it." Tim turned to Tony, and even with the shadows falling on his face, Tony could see the unshed tears in Tim's eyes. His voice got louder. "...because it's me that it's happening to. You can give up if you want. You can walk away. I can't walk away from myself." Then, he laughed. "Well...I _could_, but the only way that could happen is rather permanent and I don't think anyone wants that." There was a nasty pause. "At least...I _hope_ no one wants that?"

Tony laughed incredulously. "Do you really have to ask the question, McGee?"

"Yeah, I do," Tim said, his voice dropping to a whisper again. "I do, Tony. Do you want that? Do you wish that you hadn't found me in time, that I had just died?" Tony tried to answer, to deny that, but Tim was suddenly on a roll. "Wouldn't it have been easier for you, for everyone? I would have died and then you wouldn't have to worry about having a drug addict for a fri– for a colleague. Wouldn't it have been better if you didn't have to try and pretend that you didn't hate me for what I've...for who I am? Even if I don't get fired on Monday, you'll still have to come to work and wonder...is McGee really clean today? Did he mess up again? Is he worse? Could he possibly be better? Is he lying again? Am I going to find him dead? Do you _want_ that? Tell me the truth, Tony. Do you really want to deal with all that me being alive entails?"

Tony was quiet for nearly a minute. Tim just waited.

"Do you know what the worst thing is, McGee?"

"What?"

"That you really don't know that we...that I would rather have you alive than dead. I...I'm really sorry that it's gotten to the point where you feel that way."

Tim still seemed to be waiting for more; so Tony took a breath and pressed on.

"Do I want to deal with all that? No, I don't. I'm being honest. I don't _want_ to. I hate that you are like some of the people I had to arrest, some of the people I had to discover dead. But if I have to learn to deal with it? Fine. I will...because you _are_ a friend, McGee. You are...and I would never prefer to have you dead, just to save me some work."

"Really?" Tim asked in the same soft voice.

"Really." Tony smiled for the first time. "Now, don't make me hug you or anything to prove my point, okay? That would just be weird."

Tim laughed but he turned away. "I won't."

Tony waited a minute before stepping forward and slinging an arm companionably around Tim's shoulders, directing him back down the sidewalk toward his apartment.

"You let _Ziva_ beat you at game shows? What did you watch?"

There were unexpressed tears in Tim's voice, but he managed a weak chuckle. "We were watching the Game Show Network. She won at the pyramind game, at the Price is Right, even at the old Family Feud game."

"You realize she's going to be insufferable about this, right?"

"Just say that she had an unfair advantage. She was playing against a drug addict."

An awkward pause.

"You're more than that, Probie."

They weren't looking at each other as they walked, and Tim seemed to shrink in size.

"Am I? It's all I can see at the moment."

"You are. Trust me."

"Trust you?"

"'I swear on the soul of my father, Domingo Montoya. You will reach the top alive.'"

"The top of what?"

"Oh, no, McGee. I refuse to believe that _you_, geek extraordinaire, have not seen _The Princess Bride._ Inigo Montoya? 'You killed my father. Prepare to die!' Wesley? Buttercup? The clergyman?"

Tim laughed. "'Wuv. Twoo wuv will fowwow you foweva.'"

"Good. You had me worried there."

"That's all you were worried about?"

And again, they had moved from the trivial to the serious. Tim seemed ashamed.

"Sorry, Tony. I just..."

"It's the big elephant in the room. I know. Just give us a few weeks and we won't even notice."

Again, that was the wrong thing to say. Tony could tell as soon as the words were out...even if he didn't know exactly why. Tim walked faster, pulling ahead.

"I don't _want_ you not to notice. I want this to be something terrible as long as it's a problem. I don't want to forget what I did. It's my idiocy that got me into this mess in the first place and I don't want to stop _hating_ it." He looked over at Tony who had caught up once more. "What I did...what I'm doing...what it's done to me. It's all _wrong_! I don't want to accept it. I don't want it to seem normal. If it has to be a big elephant in the room, I'd rather have that than allow it to be something...that's okay."

Tony grabbed his shoulder, surprised at the anger. "Hey! Using drugs isn't okay! You know my feelings on it, but that doesn't mean that we all have to look at it with...all right, with the kind of reaction I had earlier. That's not right either. Like it or not, as you said, this is a long term thing. It's not going away for a while. And _that_ part of it really is okay."

There was a bench nearby. Tim walked over and seemed to collapse onto it. For some reason, it was at that moment that Tony really felt as though he understood how Tim was feeling, to a certain degree. This addiction had taken Tim as much by surprise as it had taken everyone else. Tony wasn't used to thinking of Tim as a drug addict but Tim wasn't used to _being_ a drug addict. Tim was a perfectionist and now he had found out in the worst possible way that he really wasn't perfect, not by a long shot. He walked over and sat down beside the limp figure.

"I wanted to do a rapid detox but Dr. Young said no."

"I don't blame her. I've heard those things are rough."

"But it would have got it all out at once."

"Like you tried to do with your butcher knife?" Tony asked pointedly.

"That's why she said no. My reaction to the withdrawal was too violent. She said that not many people can get off benzodiazepines that way...and that it's considered barbaric...but...if it had worked..."

"...you might relapse or you might die. Do it the long way if it will work better in the long run."

"I _hate_ this, Tony!" Tim shouted all of a sudden. "I really, really hate this. I...I want it to be _over_. Now. Not in six months...or longer. I want it to be over."

I un–no, I don't understand, but I get that. I get just wanting it to be over, McGee. I really do...but nothing is over that quickly."

Tim seemed to slump even lower. "I know. I hate what I've done." He bent over as if in pain. Tony was about to ask what was wrong. "Am I going to be fired? Is Vance going to fire me? I lied to get hired in the first place. I don't deserve to be there...is he going to fire me?"

"I don't know. Honestly, I don't. I don't get Vance. He's a lot more like you, McGee, than he is like me."

"I've never been fired before. I don't know what I'd do." He laughed breathlessly. "It would look bad on my resume."

Tony laughed too, although he didn't feel like it. "Would _you_ fire someone in your position...if you were Vance?" The question was out before he could even consider the wisdom of asking Tim if he thought he deserved to get fired...but for once, it didn't seem to be the end of the world. Tim sat up, looking at Tony as if he couldn't believe what he had said...but he didn't seem angry or hurt.

Tim spoke slowly, figuring it out as he went along. "If I had to decide whether or not to fire someone under me...someone who had been taking drugs?"

Tony was quick to clarify. "Someone who expressed regret, who was trying to get clean again, someone who wasn't trying to deny it."

Tim stared at Tony for a very long time.

"Come on, McGee. Be honest. Tell me the truth. If it were you making the decision and _I_ was the drug addict...and I was trying to get clean. Would you fire me?"

Slowly, Tim shook his head...but he didn't speak.

"Why not?"

"You have a good record, Tony. That doesn't go away because you admitted to having a weakness." He still spoke slowly, and Tony could see that he didn't really want to be saying it...for whatever reason...maybe afraid of having that hope and then having it dashed.

"Exactly. Don't be afraid of saying it. Vance is more like you. He'll probably see your record...which, incidentally, is probably better than mine," Tony grinned and went on, "and he'll be willing to work with you."

Tim smiled but then sobered. He pulled off his jacket again, like he had that afternoon. Only this time, it was an illustration of more than just his breakdown. "I'm afraid, Tony. I'm really afraid. Aren't you? Aren't you afraid that I'll do this again?"

Tony hesitated and then he reached out and touched one of the many slashes. "This? No." He moved to where the track marks could just barely be seen amid the lacerations. "This? Yes."

Tim had followed his finger with his eyes. "Me, too."

"Then, let us help you...let us help you figure yourself out. We can do that without making you like some sort of...I don't know...some of trained seal...not in capital letters."

Tim smiled again wistfully. "Yeah."

"You should try to sleep, McGee. You know, they say that..."

"I have lists of things to help me sleep, Tony. I doubt that you have anything valuable to add," he said and stood up, wincing slightly.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, my leg. I cut that up, too, remember. I can't walk too far on it...and I did walk too far on it today." Tim tried to sound nonchalant but failed.

"Well, then, McGee. Let me give you the ride you refused earlier."

"I can make it on my own," Tim said.

"I know. Just let me give you a ride."

"It's only a few blocks!"

"Just think of how much faster it will be," Tony said, smiling, but silently begging Tim to let him...make up for what he'd said.

Tim didn't answer directly, but he sighed and then sank back down onto the bench. Tony raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You'd better run," Tim said.

"Flash Gordon reporting for duty," Tony replied and then took off. There was a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with the sprint and everything to do with the fact that Tim had felt so afraid and not told anyone...or at least had not told anyone who had bothered to tell Tony...which was quite a different thing. He got to his car, drove back to the bench, feeling a slight twinge of worry that he'd get back and find Tim dead.

He wasn't. He was alive, looking small, an impressive feat considering his size. When he saw the car, there was a moment when Tony thought that he was going to refuse to get in again...but then, he stood and got in the car without speaking.

"You going to be all right, Probie?" Tony asked.

Tim's reply was a cynical chuckle.

"...tonight. Are you going to be all right tonight?"

Tim shrugged. "Yeah." He reached out for the door handle. "How did this happen, Tony?"

"I couldn't tell you, Probie."

"Yeah..." Tim got out. "Thanks for the ride," he said, smiling faintly.

"You're welcome. 'Night, McGee."

"Good night, Tony."

Tony watched Tim walked in and he seemed so...desolate. He just watched him leave, knowing that although he'd gone a long way toward repairing their rather frayed friendship, Tim wasn't going to be perfectly accepting of Tony's concern...which he wasn't in the best of times anyway...and finally, he felt that irrational anger begin to fade. He didn't kid himself that _he_ was absolutely okay with how things were, but talking with Tim...talking, not shouting...it had helped him figure himself out.

He had been so angry because he'd been afraid, afraid like Tim had been afraid only from the outside instead of the inside. Now, somehow, knowing that Tim was also afraid, and of the same things, made him feel better. Tim might not be sure, but Tony was sure that Tim would be trying, genuinely trying, not just trying to pretend for everyone else's sake.

That mattered, and Tony decided that he'd do everything he could to make sure that Tim's attempt was successful.

He pulled out his phone, taking the first step.

"Hey, Abbs, you got a minute?"


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

"You pulled me out of a party to ask me if I'm mad at Tim?" Abby asked. "Tony, it's two in the morning. Go to bed! Even _I_ was thinking of going to bed."

"I can't, Abby. Not yet. Just tell me: are you still mad at McGee because of what happened with Jethro?"

"Yeah...but not in a I'm-so-mad-I'm-going-to-yell-at-you-and-make-you-wish-you-were-never-born mad. More of a disappointed and a little worried mad."

"Does McGee know the difference?"

Abby furrowed her brow and looked at Tony. "Why are you asking me this...now? What's up?"

"I'm just trying to...smooth the way a little."

"Without Tim _knowing_ you're smoothing his way?"

Tony shrugged.

"Do you honestly think that I'm going to try and keep him from taking Jethro again? I saw his face. No one could possibly feel worse than he does about what happened."

"Does McGee _know_ that you feel that way?"

"Why? What did he say to you?"

"Not much beyond that he felt as though he had to ask your permission to take Jethro back."

Abby leaned back on the seat. "I'm mad at Tim. I am...I'm mad about Jethro, but I'm more mad that Tim, smart as he is, couldn't think of a better idea than to get high."

"You didn't show it too much."

"Unlike you?"

"Yeah, unlike me."

"Well, I'm...not you, Tony. Besides, I've done some research...on Tim...on temazepam. It's scary stuff and there are benzodiazepines that can cause permanent neurological damage if taken long enough at high enough doses. Right now, I'm just glad that Tim doesn't fall into that category." She paused for just a moment and when she resumed, her voice was much softer. "After finding him in his bedroom...cut up like he was...I couldn't be mad anymore. I just want to do whatever it takes to help him get better, to keep him from trying that again." She straightened. "If that means I have to pretend that I'm not still mad at him for almost killing Jethro, then I can do it."

"Okay. You want to go home or back to your party?" Tony asked, putting the car in gear once more. Abby didn't respond as he started to pull away from the curb. He'd simply driven for a few blocks and then stopped.

"Why are you doing this, Tony? This isn't like you..." Abby smiled. "...being all touchy-feely and stuff."

Tony shrugged again.

"Really, Tony. Why?" Abby asked, serious now.

"I'm just being a concerned friend, that's all."

"Yeah, and you don't act like this ever...not unless you feel guilty or you feel responsible...so which is it?" When Tony didn't answer, Abby prodded him with a stern finger. "Come on, DiNozzo. Tell me why it is that you felt it so necessary to track me down on a Saturday night...Sunday morning and drag me to the side of the road to ask me if I'm mad at McGee."

"It's the former, okay?"

"Why do _you_ feel guilty? You didn't hook McGee on drugs."

"No, but I did my best to make him feel bad about it...and it worked."

"Him cutting himself to ribbons isn't your fault either."

"Not that."

"Then, what?"

"I yelled at him. I've been assuming the worst of him because I found out one thing didn't fit. I've made it harder. I just want to make up for that...make it a little easier instead."

"Tim's already made it harder for himself. That's what he does. If he didn't, he wouldn't have been hooked on drugs in the first place."

"That's no reason for me to help him do that." Tony stopped the car again. "Did you know that he wasn't sure if we wanted him alive? He thought that we might have preferred that he had just died. He hates being an addict so much that I'm afraid he hates himself more than I could ever have done, but he thought that I felt the same way."

"Not really, Tony," Abby said. "He didn't really think you felt the same as he did. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because Tim doesn't think like that. He always thinks that he _deserves_ worse than he gets; so you didn't hate him as much as he hates himself because you're a better person. It's not any better, but it's not the same." Abby shrugged once herself at Tony's glance. "I've known him better than you have, Tony. It's one of the side effects of being trusted. He doesn't hide so much...although he hid this pretty effectively."

"Yeah."

Abby leaned across and hugged Tony. "You're being really sweet, Tony. Don't turn into Tim, though. One of him is enough."

"Do we even _have_ one of him, Abby?"

"Yeah. Because I, for one, am not going to believe any differently. So there."

Tony smiled but wasn't sure if he felt any better.

"I'd like to go home. Can you drop me off?"

"Sure, Abbs."

"Don't worry, Tony. Things will work out. Look at how well having Jethro turned out...and he started out nearly killing Tim." Abby's smile was a bit lopsided.

"I just don't want McGee to do that to himself."

That somber thought left them in silence, even after they went their separate ways.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim was staring out his bay window. It was Sunday morning, a beautiful day, but he didn't really see the beauty in it. He managed to sleep after Tony had dropped him off, but now that he was awake again, it was back to the twisted reality in which he found himself living. It seemed impossible to imagine that a mere two weeks before he had been living secure in the life he had, believing that things were okay, were as normal as they could possibly be, and that of all the things he _was_, he at least was _not_ a drug addict.

His phone sat beside him. He had turned it off and on so many times in the last hour that it was amazing he hadn't worn out the buttons. It was strange to realize, but he missed Jethro and he wanted him back...but he was afraid that it was complete selfishness leading him to want the dog back and that he should just leave him with Gibbs where at least he wasn't in danger of dying from a drug overdose...and neither was his owner.

_One day. It's only been a day since I've been home and I feel like I'm living a completely different life._

He was wearing a t-shirt and stared at the stitches on his arm. Every time he saw them, his attention was totally arrested by the realization that he had done this...semi-voluntarily. The only thing worse was that what had led him to that point he had also engaged in voluntarily. It was disgusting, totally against everything he had ever been taught by anyone worth listening to. He had gone through school hearing the stories about the dangers of using drugs. He had known about what could happen, had participated in programs meant to give students tools to fight against peer pressure. He remembered the press about the death of Len Bias from a cocaine overdose, how horrible it was that such a promising star had died so young. Even though he was never interested in sports, he had noticed it. It had been a major talking point in his health class.

He could only imagine the reactions of the kids in his high school if they knew that the resident geek, the genius (if they were charitable), the awkward Timothy McGee had become a drug user. His teachers would be shocked...and disappointed that this student whom they had lauded was nothing more than an addict.

_How could I have been so stupid?_

Tim remembered Devon, his subtle cajoling, his knowledge of the kinds of things that Tim would be unable to resist...and yet, he couldn't bring himself to believe that Devon had been trying to do anything other than help. Did he ever know that he was an addict?

_Lucky him if he died not knowing that._

That thought brought the dying meth addict to his mind. To know that one's days were numbered...and not because it was the time but because one had essentially killed oneself. How did he deal with it, with _knowing_? It was the knowing that was the hardest, the knowing and the acknowledgment that he was an addict.

_Can I tell my family?_

He hadn't seen them for a while. Sarah was on a student exchange in England and wouldn't be back for a few more months. His parents expected only that he would keep in contact, not that they'd see him until Thanksgiving or, more likely, Christmas. He couldn't bear to imagine what their faces might look like when they found out that their only son was an idiot.

_What am I going to do?_

His phone rang, startling him from his thoughts and his heart was racing as he picked it up with shaking hands.

"Hello?"

"_Hey, Tim, did you just get back from running?"_

"No, Abby. Why?"

"_You sound...out of breath."_

"Just startled."

"_Oh."_

"What's up?"

"_Gibbs told me that Jethro is still at his place. When are you going to get him?"_

Tim hesitated. "I don't know," he hedged.

"_Why not? You're home, aren't you? He's your dog, Tim! I'll bet he misses you...and his doggy bed."_

Tim didn't answer, and Abby seemed to sense his mood.

"_Hey, Tim, don't worry."_

"Don't worry? That's asking a bit much."

"_Okay, then, don't worry about Jethro. He's a tough dog."_

"I almost killed him, Abby."

"_Yeah...but you didn't mean to...just like he didn't mean to almost kill you. You're even."_

"But he's a dog."

"_So it would have been better if it had been another human?"_

Tim winced but didn't respond.

"_Tim, you're not a dangerous person. What happened with you and Jethro could have happened to any person with a dog and a prescription. People drop pills on the ground all the time."_

_Do not cry again,_ Tim told himself sternly. _This is not a time to cry._

"_Tim, don't you want Jethro back?"_

"Yeah."

"_Then, go over and get him for goodness' sake! Stop fidgeting. Stop second-guessing yourself and drive to Gibbs' house to get your dog!"_

"Maybe...maybe I should..."

"_No. No maybes. You didn't suddenly become an unfit pet owner. You take good care of Jethro. I know that because I keep tabs on you. So...stop vacillating...or do I have to call Gibbs and make him order you to take Jethro home?"_

Tim smiled, but it was hard to do it.

"Okay, Abbs. I'll go."

"_Good. You'll have to take him for a nice long walk to make up for it."_

"For what?"

"_I don't know...whatever you decide to feel guilty about next."_

"Thanks."

"_Tim...all joking aside, try to look on the bright side of things."_

"What bright side?"

"_You're alive. You have a good chance of becoming totally, one hundred percent drug free. You have the perfect dog. You have friends. You have family. Those things haven't disappeared. Not everything is bad. In fact, only _one_ thing is bad...granted it's a big thing, but it's still only one."_

"I haven't told them."

"_Your family?"_

"I can't, Abby. I can't tell them. I don't even know how to tell them."

"_You'll have to eventually, but I can understand not wanting them to know. You should probably do it before life forces you to do it. You'll feel better in the long run."_

"What about them? How will they feel?"

Abby's answer was immediate. _"They'll feel much better if you tell them than if you try to hide it. Parents are weird like that. They tend to love their kids no matter what."_

Tim laughed a little.

"_I'm not saying you should do it tonight, but you should do it. Today, just get your dog."_

"I didn't think you'd want me to have him back."

"_Do you really think he's better off with Gibbs?"_ Abby asked, her voice sounding highly amused. _"Mr. I'm-too-busy-building-a-boat-to-think-about-anything-else? You care and you take the time to care. Gibbs might care, but I couldn't have made him take Jethro. You took him...and now you like him. So, I think he's better off with you than he is with Gibbs."_

"I can't follow that," Tim confessed.

"_Don't worry. I mean it. Go get him. I'm not mad at you. Jethro won't be either. He loves you like all dogs love their owners."_

Tim nodded. "Okay."

"_You're going to be fine, Tim. I promise."_

"How do you know?"

"_Because I'm a genius...and so are you."_

Tim had to swallow very hard to keep back the tears this time. "Thanks, Abbs," he whispered.

"_See you later, Tim."_

Tim hung up the phone and sat back for a moment before getting up and heading off to get his dog back.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Tim sat in his car for ten minutes before he could bring himself to get out. It had been two weeks since he had seen Jethro and he was half-afraid of being rejected...which was stupid because Jethro was just a dog. He wasn't a person.

But it wasn't just Jethro. It was also that he was going somewhere other than his apartment for the first time since discovering and then admitting to his addiction. He almost felt like he shouldn't be allowed...addicts shouldn't be free to mix in with normal people. Maybe he should affix a scarlet A on his chest... A is for addict.

Tim took a deep breath and let it out slowly, mentally planning what he'd say to Gibbs when he opened the door.

_Hey, Boss...I'm here to get my dog...is that okay?_

_Good morning, Boss. Is it all right if I take the dog I almost killed back?_

_Hi. My dog...he's here and I'd like him back._

_You're an idiot, Tim,_ he said to himself. _You're getting your dog back not addressing the nation. Get out of the stupid car and walk to the door._

Another breath and Tim got out, walking to the door with such a slow pace that he would have fit in as a pall bearer. He knocked before he could second-guess himself.

No one answered. That was unexpected. Tim wasn't sure what to do...if he should knock again or if he should walk in...walk away? Try again later? Then, he heard barking from the back of the house. He hesitated. Going into someone's back yard was almost like walking into their house...and he just couldn't feel welcome. He didn't think he'd feel welcome if Gibbs greeted him with open arms. That thought made him smile.

_If Gibbs greeted me with open arms, I'd probably think I'd gone crazy...or that Gibbs had._

That little bit of humor was enough to give him the courage to walk around to the back. He didn't make it two steps into the yard before Jethro had jumped on him, knocking him down in a scene reminiscent of their very first meeting...only with the situations reversed: Tim was on drugs and the dog was clean. Tim laughed as Jethro leapt all over him, licking his face, barking happily, his tail wagging eagerly. It was almost like the last couple of weeks had never happened. He was at the park, playing with his dog...but then, he pulled Jethro closer and began to cry.

"Oh, Jethro, I'm so sorry," he said softly. "I'm so...so sorry. Why is it that you can be so happy to see me when I nearly killed you? I completely neglected you. How can you forgive me for that?"

Jethro sat back on his haunches and whined a little before licking Tim's face again. Perhaps, he sensed the same attitude with which Tim had spoken to him at the time of his collapse. Perhaps, in his own way, Jethro understood Tim's feelings. Whatever the reason, rather than pick up the ball that lay abandoned a few feet away and urge Tim to throw it for him, Jethro simply sat at his master's feet, nudging him gently. Tim forgot that he was in Gibbs' backyard, that anyone, i.e. Gibbs, could see him there. He sat up and pulled himself into a tight ball, rocking back and forth, sobbing at this latest evidence of how his life had changed...of how his life had damaged those around him.

It was as though he had no control, no ability to hide anything inside himself anymore. It all came pouring out whenever it got even slightly bad. Every moment of frustration, every fear, every feeling of grief...it was all on display for the world to see. He could no more pretend that everything was okay than he could live without the drugs currently coursing through his bloodstream. Nothing in his life was okay. His life was a mass of contradictions that he couldn't bear to think about for long periods of time. Nearly every moment he was awake, he remembered that he was an addict, that he had allowed himself to become something he hated, that the life he had thought he was living didn't exist. It didn't matter that Dr. Young had seen people worse off than he was. What mattered was that _he_ had never seen _himself_ in any worse a situation...and he didn't know how to deal with it, how to accept it, how to _live_ with it.

Wrapped up in his own grief, a grief almost as intense as if someone had died, Tim didn't notice when Jethro began running back and forth between him and an approaching figure. It was as if he was beckoning the man to come closer, knowing that he could make things right again for his master...if anyone could.

The first inkling Tim had of the presence of another human being in the yard was the hand on his shoulder and the sound of someone kneeling in the grass beside him.

"What are you doing, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

Tim lifted his head and tried to stop the tears.

"J-Just getting Jethro...that's all."

"What's going on, McGee?"

"I'm just getting my dog...my dog I almost killed because I'm stupid. That's all. That's all." Tim tried to lean away from Gibbs' hand, tried to pretend that he didn't feel like he was falling apart...like he _had_ fallen apart. Gibbs didn't let him get away. He wouldn't release Tim and let him crawl away from the sunlight like a cockroach.

"McGee, you can't do that."

Tim looked at Gibbs just as Jethro licked his face again, licked away the salty tears on his cheeks. It wrung a reluctant smile from his lips.

"Do what?"

"You can't think of yourself that way. It will ruin you."

"I'm already ruined, Boss. A corrupted file...and you can't just reformat. Damaged goods...only they don't allow returns. You just have to stick with the worthless junk...or throw it away." The words came out before Tim could even think about them.

The headslap was not unexpected.

"No, Tim. You're not damaged. You're not worthless. I don't invest in worthless junk...and like it or not, I've invested a whole lot of time in you and I'm darn well not going to let that go to waste."

Tim swallowed and then reached out to pat Jethro on the head.

"You need to stop thinking of yourself as either good or bad, Tim. There's nothing to be gained by that...and a whole lot to lose."

"It's the way it is now," Tim said, after a moment of silence. He reached out for the ball laying in the grass. "All the nice words in the world can't change the facts. The fact is that I shouldn't be working for you at all. I would never have been hired had my drug use been known when I applied. I should have been allowed to fall into the kind of habit that killed Devon. The fact is that I am a drug addict, and even though I keep saying it, I still want to deny it. I want to pretend that you guys never saw me, never knew...and it sickens me that I still want to lie about it." He threw the ball across the yard. Jethro barked once and ran to fetch it. "Right now, I feel...not normal...but more like normal...and I just wish that I really was, that it wasn't drugs making me feel that way. I wish...but I can't do anything about it...not yet. All I can do is..."

"Is what?" Gibbs asked. When Jethro came back with the ball in his mouth, he took it and threw it again. "What can you do?"

"That's the problem. I don't see anything. I didn't even want to leave my apartment this morning. I didn't want to come over here, didn't want to face you...didn't want to...sully your property with my addiction. It's stupid...but..."

"Yeah, that's pretty stupid, McGee," Gibbs said. "Addiction isn't contagious. I'm not going to suddenly have an addiction by being around you. You need to stop."

"I feel dirty," Tim admitted. "I feel like...no matter how many times I wash my hands, they'll be as dirty as Lady MacBeth's."

"Now, you're talking like Thom Gemcity writes."

That pulled another smile to Tim's lips...which faded quickly. Tim threw the ball again and watched Jethro run off.

"You said that I can beat this, Boss. I...I can't believe that yet." He hesitated before continuing. "Could you...could you believe for me? Just for a while? All I can do right now is try to make it through the day. I can't see down the road at all. I can't believe. It takes all I have just to obey the rules...even though I want to."

"On one condition, McGee."

"What's that?"

"That you try. I don't even care if you fail. I just want a genuine effort from you because I'll believe...and I'll go to bat for you no matter how many times it takes...but you have to be trying because I'm not going to be the only one trying. Got it?"

Tim nodded.

"Say it aloud."

"I understand. I'm trying, Boss. I'm really trying. I'm not lying."

"I didn't think you were."

"Then, why–?"

"Because you need to say it," Gibbs said, meeting Tim's gaze sternly. "You're spending too much time thinking about what you did before and not enough time thinking about what you're going to do. You need to try and think about the future. Okay, you can't right now. I can accept that...but you can't just say you can't do it and leave it at that."

"Okay," Tim whispered, feeling worse. Gibbs could obviously tell and he sighed.

"McGee...no one is expecting more than you can give. Don't try to do more than you can...because then you really _will_ fail."

"That's what scares me. I don't think..." This was a confession that he didn't want to make because it would be too...real...but he didn't want to hide it either. "I don't think I could bear to fail. Dr. Young said it's possible, but that the odds are against it...but I'm afraid I will and I'm afraid that if I do..."

Gibbs' hand was on Tim's shoulder again, gripping it tightly. "Then, if you think you're going to, ask us for help. That's an order, McGee. I don't want you trying to get through this alone if you don't think you can. I don't care which of us you call. Call Dr. Young if you'd rather...but you _call_. I mean it. I don't want you to fail either. Nor does Ducky or Tony or Ziva or Abby or anyone. _We_ don't want you fail. You don't want to fail. So, we'll help you. We can't do everything, and I don't think we should, but we can at least help you when you need it."

"I should be able to..." Tim began.

"No," Gibbs interrupted. "No, you shouldn't. You're not healing from a broken bone, McGee, you're trying to change how you function. You're trying to change back to how you used to function. There is nothing that says you have to be able to do that on your own. If it was that easy, they wouldn't need doctors like Dr. Young specializing in it."

Tim had been mechanically throwing the ball, watching Jethro fetch it and bring it back, then, throwing it again. This time, he watched Jethro bring it back and set it down on the ground just out of his reach. Then, Jethro padded over to Tim and rested his head on Tim's knees, panting and staring at his master.

"What if I do fail, Boss?" Tim asked. He had been asking this question quite a lot, but he couldn't seem to stop asking it. He was afraid to because he was afraid that by asking he would be setting himself up for failure. He was afraid _not_ to ask because he was afraid that _not_ asking would be denying the possibility.

He was looking at Jethro, staring into his adoring eyes. Tim wished that more people looked like that: unquestionably accepting, even without deserving it. It was ironic that he was staring at his dog while talking to his boss...and both of them had the same name. Gibbs turned him so that he was forced to look at his boss instead of his dog.

"I wish I could just tell you that you won't and be done with it, but I can't. What I can promise is that we won't abandon you if that happens. You won't be alone except when it's necessary. Some things you will have to do on your own...but there are lots of things we can help you with."

Tim stared at Gibbs and nodded slowly.

"For instance," Gibbs continued, "you won't be alone in your meeting with Vance tomorrow morning."

Tim immediately tensed at the mention of that terrifying event.

"I'll be there, McGee. You won't have to deal with it...or with whatever comes of it on your own. Believe me."

"Yes, Boss."

"Good, then you can take your dog."

Tim nodded at the dismissal and stood, a little unsteadily, just because he had been sitting for so long. Then, he crouched in front of Jethro.

"Are you ready to come home, Jethro?" he asked.

Jethro began to jump around excitedly and Tim smiled at his antics.

"Then, let's go." He looked at Gibbs and nodded and then began to walk out.

"McGee."

"Yeah, Boss?"

"You aren't alone in this. Remember that."

Tim nodded, with a bit more fervor, walked back to his car, loaded Jethro inside and drove home.

He spent the evening trying to pretend that he wasn't nervous about his meeting and trying not to count down to his next dose. The desire to take it wasn't quite so strong as it had been the day before, but even so, he wanted it...if only out of habit (as opposed to addiction). Jethro was happy to be back, even if the place was a bit more cramped than Gibbs' home. When evening came and it was time for Tim to take his dose, he was filled with fear. He was afraid he would drop the bottle again. So, instead of simply shaking the pills into his hand, he took the bottle to the sink and opened it with shaking hands. Then, he took one pill at a time out of the bottle and set it carefully on the counter, making sure that he had a firm grip...so that he didn't drop even one on the ground. Then, he took them one at a time, picking each pill up and setting it on his tongue.

He didn't drop a single one.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Why was it that NCIS seemed like a foreign country? Why did he feel like an invader?

_Because I'm a drug addict and drug addicts are supposed to be arrested by the people who work here...not employed by them._

With a deep breath, Tim opened the door and walked in. The guard checking IDs treated him much the same as he always did...but did he look at him a little more closely? He smiled and walked on by. He could take the elevator but...no, he didn't want to take the elevator. He didn't want to risk riding up with a normal person, someone who might look at him with the same disgust he felt himself. He mounted the stairs, one foot in front of the other, slowly...ever so slowly.

Tony and Ziva were already there when he reached the bullpen, although Ziva looked as though she had just arrived herself. Tim tried to smile at them, but the muscles controlling those movements appeared to be malfunctioning.

"Morning," he said, not meeting their eyes. "Have you seen Gibbs?"

"He's upstairs."

"With Vance?"

"Yeah. Probably. You all right, Probie?"

"No," Tim said softly and then walked to the stairs. He began to climb them, feeling as though everyone in the bullpen was staring at him, seeing through his immaculate suit to the addict hidden beneath it. He had dressed so carefully this morning and then wondered if he was simply trying to play a part that didn't belong to him...not anymore...and a part that should _never_ have belonged to him. He didn't have the courage to look and see if anyone beyond Tony and Ziva truly _was_ staring at him. He just continued up the stairs and then walked to Vance's office.

_I miss Cynthia,_ he thought randomly as he looked at the assistant sitting in Cynthia's place. He didn't understand why Jenny's departure had required Cynthia's as well...or perhaps it was that Cynthia didn't want to work here without Jenny.

"You can go right on in, Agent McGee."

Tim nodded mutely and continued walking. He opened the door and stepped into the office. Vance was sitting at his desk, Gibbs on a chair in front of it. Vance had next to no expression on his face.

"Have a seat, Agent McGee."

"Yes, sir." Tim sat down, wanting nothing more than to hide his face, to run away and pretend this horrible life he was currently living didn't exist. The silence stretched out painfully. To Tim it felt like hours, although in reality it was less than a minute.

"Anything you'd like to say, Agent McGee?"

_So, you're forcing me to say it. Thanks a lot,_ Tim thought, but when he started to speak, his voice was anything but sarcastic or confrontational. It was soft, hesitating...full of shame.

"I've been taking drugs, Director Vance...since I was seventeen years old, and I...I'm currently addicted to benzodiazepines, specifically temazepam. I..." Tim swallowed. "...I've just started a program to get me off them. It will take at least six months, probably longer."

There was another interminable silence.

"I...I can't think of anything else to say, Director."

"No apology?"

Tim met his eyes. "Would it really help?" he asked.

Suddenly, he saw the sympathy in Vance's eyes.

"No, probably not," he admitted. "I don't want to fire you, Agent McGee."

"I don't want to lose my job, sir," Tim said. He wasn't sure why he could speak like this to Vance. He didn't think he could have if Jenny were still in charge. Of course, Vance had never talked him into quitting.

"Well, then, at least, we agree on something."

Tim tried to smile again, but the most he could manage was a grimace.

"What's going to happen, sir?"

"That depends on you, McGee."

"In what respect?"

"Agent Gibbs has told me that you are willingly participating in this program."

"Yes, sir."

"So, you want to get clean."

"Yes."

"Do you think you're ready to go back to work?"

Tim opened his mouth to answer but no words came out. The reason for that was simple: he didn't know. As a field agent? That was easy.

"No," he said. "I can barely get through a day when all I'm doing is sitting around. I... Right now, I don't think I could handle it. I don't want to...put anyone in danger."

"What about before?"

Gibbs stirred slightly, but he didn't speak.

"Before, sir?"

"Yes, Agent McGee. Before." Vance's tone became more stern. "You have been using drugs for the duration of your employ at NCIS. You have more than likely been addicted during a significant period. Do you deny that?"

"No, sir."

"Then, did you not ever worry about the possibility before your exposure?"

Tim was silent for a long moment and, although he sensed Gibbs getting ready to intervene, he found he didn't want that...so he spoke.

"Yes, sir. I did...and I did nothing about it." Tim swallowed, trying to keep the courage that had goaded him into speech. "There were days, in the middle of my periods of drug use when I thought that perhaps what I was doing might be dangerous. I did nothing. Once I looked up some information but because I found little about my personal situation, I chose to believe that it was not a problem. Now, looking back, I can see that I was just avoiding a confrontation with what I knew was wrong. I deliberately hid my drug use, my dependency. I never told a soul and I knew that I couldn't and keep my job. I know how long it stays in my bloodstream and I know how often the random drug testing comes up...and I took steps to be sure that there was nothing in my system...so that I didn't get caught. I was knowingly risking the lives of my friends." Tim didn't know what else to say; so he stopped speaking. Vance's expression didn't change.

"We were never in danger," Gibbs said, speaking for the first time.

Vance didn't appear to have heard him at all. He was looking at Tim.

"Wait outside for a few minutes, please, Agent McGee."

Tim nodded mutely and stood without hesitation. He opened the door and walked out to where he remembered sitting after shooting Benedict. He didn't really notice the assistant staring at him. In fact, the world boiled down to the seat upon which he was sitting. Slowly, his left hand moved, almost of its own accord, over to the sleeve covering his right arm. Unconsciously, he slipped a finger beneath it and began to trace the lacerations. He could feel them. His mind was blank, stunned into inactivity. He couldn't do anything but wait, and thinking would require more than he had to give at the moment.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"What are you going to do, Leon?" Gibbs asked.

Vance smiled humorlessly. "What do you expect me to do, Jethro?"

"You're not answering my question."

"I'm surprised you're even asking. Don't you generally attempt to _dictate_ my decisions?"

"Only when I know what you want to do already."

Vance stood and walked to the window. "It's a nice view, both literally and symbolically, but do you know that I've never wanted this job less than I do right now?"

"I never wanted it at all."

"I'm beginning to question my eagerness for it."

"Only now?"

"Now when I have a situation like this."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"You realize that he only got this job under false pretenses."

"You realize that he kept this job because he's so good at it?"

"He has lied about it from the beginning."

"And can you imagine how much better he'll be when he's clean?"

"From E.O. 12564, 'Persons who use illegal drugs are not suitable for Federal employment.'"

"That's not all that order says. I can't quote it, but isn't there a whole bunch of legalese about programs for supporting an employee who is found to be using drugs? And that a person who is in a rehabilitation program may even return to work if it is determined that he has the ability and will not endanger lives? And doesn't it even specifically state that drug use does _not_ have to be reported to the Attorney General for prosecution?"

"Been doing your homework, I see."

"I can read official documents if the occasion calls for it. So, what are you going to do...Director?"

"There's really only one thing I _can_ do, Agent Gibbs."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Shouldn't we be up there, too?" Abby asked in a whisper. "Giving evidence or something?"

"Evidence of what? That we had no idea McGee was using drugs? How will that help?" Ziva asked.

"Or that we've seen him break down a few times? I'm sure that will go over with Vance really well," Tony said sarcastically.

"We should be there for Tim," Abby said finally. "He shouldn't have to do this alone."

"Gibbs is up there."

"No offense to my silver-haired fox, but Gibbs isn't exactly the most comforting person."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Abby, you're the one he _is_ comforting to."

"Yes, well, I'm not up there, am I. Tim is." Abby stuck out her tongue.

The elevator doors opened and Ducky walked out. He paused at the sight of the three huddled together.

"Waiting for the verdict, are we?" he asked.

"You, too?"

"More or less."

"What does that mean, Ducky?"

"Vance requested my presence, as an expert."

"In forensic psychology?"

"I suppose he wants to keep this in house."

"Tell Vance that Tim is vital to NCIS," Abby said.

"I don't believe that is to be my function. Director Vance is already well aware of Timothy's position at NCIS. He is, after all, the one who gave Timothy the orders to break through those complex encryptions."

"Then, he should know that Tim is vital to _us_!"

Ducky's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Abigail, I think you fear for nothing. This meeting is more than likely the least of Timothy's problems."

Abby visibly wilted.

"Don't worry, my dear. All will be well." He mounted the steps and disappeared into Vance's office.

"Does Ducky know, you think?" Tony asked.

"He knows everything else," Ziva said.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim sat alone. Vance's assistant had excused himself a few minutes before, perhaps because of Tim's blank stare. It was probably unnerving. Tim had only vaguely acknowledged Ducky when he'd walked past, although he was sure he had seen a sympathetic expression. Whether that was a good sign or a bad one, Tim didn't know, but he didn't want to think about it, didn't want to think of the possibility that his career, his life as he had known it, was over.

The door opened.

"Timothy?"

Tim looked up.

"Yes, Ducky?"

"Could you join us, please?"

Tim swallowed and nodded. He stood and once again entered the office. Vance and Gibbs were now sitting at the table. Ducky joined them and indicated that Tim should sit also.

"Have a seat, Agent McGee," Vance said.

Tim sat without speaking.

"I have come to a decision regarding your employment here."

There was only one reason that Tim could think of for the intense formalities, for Gibbs' solemn expression. "You're firing me, aren't you."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Vance stayed silent for only a fraction of a second during which time, his expression could only be described as pitying.

"No, Agent McGee. You are _not_ being fired."

"Why not?" Tim asked.

"Do you _want_ to be fired?"

"No...but...but...I'm an addict, sir." Tim stared at his hands...at his arm. Even though it was covered by his jacket, he could see the healing lacerations. "E.O. 12564 says that...'Persons who use illegal drugs are not suitable for Federal employment.' I'm using illegal drugs."

Tim didn't look up...so he missed the sad smiles on the faces of Gibbs and Vance, the unsurprised expression on Ducky's face. Yes, Tim would know _exactly_ the wording of something that condemned him.

"You are also a _good _employee, McGee," Vance said. "As Gibbs reminded me, if you hadn't been good at your job, you wouldn't have been able to keep it once you started."

Tim looked up. "But, sir, Director, I...I've _lied_ about it...repeatedly. I did everything I could to make sure no one found out. I endangered lives by...by maintaining that I was okay. Even now...I..." His eyes dropped to his lap again. "I'm still an addict. Every minute of every day. How can you possibly trust me? I don't trust myself."

"Maybe that's why."

"I don't understand, sir."

"Agent McGee, you are still a good agent, and I would be foolish to let that go. I trust you because I know you aren't trying to pretend."

"What if I am?"

Tim heard a distinct sigh...and then, something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

"Anyone would think that you're trying to play the role of prosecutor here, McGee."

"I just want to make sure you...you understand who I am...what I've done. I don't want you to keep me...keep me on when...if...if you'll regret it later."

"Sit up straight, McGee," Gibbs said into the ensuing silence.

Tim did so and couldn't help but look up. He met Gibbs' eyes and saw no condemnation...and a trace of amusement which surprised him. He then forced himself to look at Vance. No matter what he had told Tony, he had expected to be fired and _not_ to be seemed both impossible and frightening.

Vance, once he was sure that he had Tim's attention, spoke again. "Make no mistake, Agent McGee, you _are_ on notice. There are things you'll have to do in order to stay on here, not the least of which is going to be continuing your rehabilitation and successfully completing it, but I won't regret keeping you as a special agent if you wish to stay."

"What..." Tim had to clear his throat. "What else is there? ...for me to do...to keep my job?" He added the final tag knowing that the other three had caught what he meant.

"You're familiar with the Employee Assistance Programs?"

"Y-Yes, sir."

"I'm assuming your rehab program has a therapy component to it?"

"Yes. It does. Group therapy sessions, plus one-on-one meetings."

"Good. In addition, I want you to meet with an EAP counselor...sometime in the next few days and then regularly once you return to work. I will leave those decisions up to you and the counselor but it is a required part of your continued employment. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"In addition, in concert with your rehabilitation, you'll be subjected to urine tests."

"Yes, sir. That makes sense."

Ducky, who was sitting closest to Tim, put a hand on his shoulder. "Timothy, no one in this room expects you to be perfect...except perhaps you."

Tim swallowed again and his eyes unmistakably filled with tears. "I just don't want to screw up again. I'll do whatever it takes, Director."

"I know that, Agent McGee. I'll expect to hear from you regarding your EAP meeting within the week, and I'll want a regular report on your progress, your fitness for duty."

"Yes, sir."

"Any questions?"

"Just one, Director."

"What's that?"

"Are you sure you trust me?"

"Yes, Agent McGee. I'm sure."

Tim nodded. "Is that all?"

"Yes. Within the week."

"Yes, sir." He stood and walked out.

Vance leaned back. "Why is that I think I could have asked him to engage in self-flagellation every day and he would have done it...and shown me the welts?"

"Because he would have," Gibbs said. "And he might even have preferred it."

Vance looked at the two men who knew Tim much better than he did. "Has he ruined himself? Is it too late?"

"I don't know that I can answer that," Gibbs said.

"You can try."

"I hope not."

"Ducky?"

Ducky sighed and looked at the door. "I can only echo Jethro. I hope not. It's hard to say at this moment. Timothy has been forced to confront himself in a way many never do. He needs the time to recover from that confrontation...but what the result of that will be...it's hard to say, if not impossible. If I might be excused, Director?"

"Of course, Ducky."

"Thank you." Ducky left the two original occupants alone.

"Jethro."

"I don't _know_, Leon," Gibbs said. "I really don't. I would never have thought McGee would...take it so hard, but it's not really all that surprising when you think about it."

"I don't want to have to dismiss him."

"Then, don't. Give him the time and he'll be okay."

"You hope?"

Gibbs stood and walked to the door, but before he walked out, he nodded. "Yes. I hope."

Alone, Vance stood and walked to the window again and shook his head at the view.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim didn't want to see Tony and Ziva. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He wanted to run and hide, but leaving Vance's office made him visible to the entire bullpen...to all the eyes that must be on him at the moment. Tony gestured vigorously for Tim to come down, but he didn't shout for which Tim was very grateful. ...but he didn't want to go down.

A hand on his shoulder steered him toward the stairs.

"Go down, Timothy. Go down and talk to your friends."

Tim didn't reply, couldn't...but he didn't resist. He reached the bullpen, Ducky directing him all the way.

"Hey, Probie, how did it go?"

"Fine," Tim said. "It was fine."

"What did the Director say?" Ziva asked. Her voice was light, but she was looking at him too closely...looking for...what?

"I have to meet with a...a counselor and...and complete my rehabilitation."

"But you are still going to be here, yes?"

Tim nodded.

"Does that not please you?"

"It does. I didn't want to get fired."

Both Tony and Ziva looked behind him, no doubt at Ducky who had not taken his hand from Tim's shoulder.

"I...I have to go. I have an...appointment." Tim swallowed again. "I'll see you...later. Okay?"

"Okay, McGee," Ziva said. Then, she stepped forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "I am glad you are staying."

Tim finally smiled a little. "Me, too. I really have to go."

"Very well."

Tim stepped forward, pulling away from Ducky's guiding hand, stepping between Ziva and Tony. He reached the elevator just as Abby had come back up to see what had happened. She shouted his name, but he just smiled and said again that he had to leave. Again, Ducky seemed to pass along a silent message and she didn't run after him.

"What's up with McGee?" Tony asked. "He _wasn't_ fired was he?"

"No, he wasn't."

"Then, what's up? He wasn't like this before."

"I'm not sure, Tony. I just know that at the moment, Timothy needs some time to himself."

"Tim seemed...so..._sad_," Abby said. "What did Vance do to him?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all, Abigail."

"Gibbs! What's wrong with Tim?" Abby called up.

Gibbs didn't answer as he came down the stairs. Instead, he walked the rest of the way down, around the landing and joined the group in the bullpen.

"I don't know what's wrong...beyond what has _been_ wrong for years, Abby."

"It can't just be that!"

"Yes, I'm afraid it can be, my dear."

"I don't like it," Abby said, now letting out her worry.

"Nor do I, but this is not something we can fix...not right away. It will take time and the last thing Timothy needs at the moment is more scrutiny."

"Just give him a bit of a break, Abby," Gibbs said. "And we have work to do...I'm sure you do as well."

Work. It seemed impossible that there could be regular life going on out there when life inside had become so...irregular. Even though it had been more than two weeks since Tim's addiction had come to light, they were still unable to process its reality.

...that Tim might have the same difficulty didn't occur to them.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Hey, Jethro! I'm home!" Tim called as he opened the door...and was nearly knocked over by an excited dog. Tim smiled, the first genuine smile since he'd left NCIS that morning. "You want to go out? I know you got walked but...you want to go out now?"

Jethro leapt around eagerly.

"Okay, give me a minute." He went into the bedroom, changed his clothes and grabbed Jethro's leash and ball.

"Let's go!"

They jogged to a nearby park and then Tim let Jethro run around, chase his ball, and in general, enjoy the outdoors. All the while, something was stirring in Tim's chest, something he'd been steadfastly ignoring ever since his meeting with Vance. He had gone to the clinic and had his first group therapy session. He didn't say much and no one seemed to expect him to do so.

After half an hour, Tim called Jethro and they jogged back home. As Tim walked to his door, he heard a shout.

"Hey, Tim!"

He turned. "Hi, Melanie."

"Wow, you're still looking pretty pale. I haven't seen you around much...not since I gave you your package. You okay?"

Tim managed a weak smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. I had...some problems with the medication I was taking. It turned out to be more serious than I thought...but I'm doing much better now."

"I'm glad. Even got Jethro out for a walk?"

"More of a run than a walk, but yeah."

"Well, if you need anything, you can call me, you know."

Tim smiled again and nodded. "I know. Thanks."

"No problem." She wandered back down the hall to her apartment. Tim watched her go inside and then turned back to his own door. Jethro was nudging at his legs, knowing that going inside meant he'd be fed.

"Okay, Jethro. In we go."

He fed Jethro and watched him eat for a few minutes before going to his cupboard and pulling out the bottle of diazepam. He looked at it with a mingled distaste and longing. Carefully, he set out his nightly dose on the counter and then capped the bottle and put it away. With a full glass of water, he began to take his pills, one at a time until they were gone. He poured the extra water down the drain, washed the glass and put it in the cupboard next to the pills. Then, he closed the cupboard door, ensuring that it was securely latched. No chance of the bottle falling to the floor.

He patted Jethro on the head as he walked back to his bedroom. The dog barely looked up, so intent was he on emptying his dish. Then, with a vague disquiet, he got ready for bed, knowing that he wouldn't be sleeping for a while, but figuring that he might as well try. Then, finally, he sat down on his bed and looked around.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The silence that had ruled in the apartment was suddenly broken. It startled Jethro who had emptied his food dish and moved onto his water. Drawn into the bedroom, he investigated. What he found was Tim, lying on his bed, in almost the exact same place he'd tried to violently remove the drugs from his body, sobbing as if his heart was breaking. Jethro whined, but Tim couldn't even hear him over his own tears. Eventually, Jethro climbed onto the bed, generally a no-no, and put his head by Tim's. Tim didn't seem to notice...his arms were covering his face.

He cried himself to sleep.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

_Two weeks later..._

It was early in the morning when Ducky heard someone on his front porch. Now that his mother was in a nursing home, he no longer could assume she was puttering around. Warily, he got out of bed and crept down to his front door. What he saw took him by surprise. For a minute or two, he stood and stared at the disconsolate figure. There had been a slight upswing in Tim's mental state over the past week...just slightly closer to his usual personality. To see him sitting there, looking so alone was a sad surprise.

He opened the door. "Timothy, what are you doing here?"

The shoulders of the man sitting on his steps hunched.

"Timothy, what's wrong?"

"I wish I was dead, Ducky," Tim said, his voice thick with tears. "I wish I had died before. I wish that I could take the temazepam just once more...and take so much that I go to sleep and never wake up."

Ducky sat beside him, feeling much more alarmed than he expressed. "What brought this on? What's happened?" Tim was literally shaking, but not with the tremors brought on by his addiction. "What's wrong?"

Tim hugged himself, and looked down at the steps. "I'm so afraid, Ducky."

"Afraid of what, lad?"

"I'm supposed to make the first step down, cutting my dosage. I'm supposed to start it tonight. I'm afraid. I won't be able to do it. I know it. I'm not going to...I'll fail. I know I will. I won't make it."

"You can do it, Timothy. Fear is to be expected, but you know you can do it."

Tim just shook his head. "I put it off once already. Last week, I was supposed to cut the dose...and I told Dr. Young I wasn't ready. She just said that it was fine and to wait until today to try. ...and I can't do it! I can't. I can't face...that again."

Then, it all made sense...even if it was no less worrying.

"I couldn't even sleep. I tried for a while, but I just couldn't. I can't. I won't be strong enough to deal with it again...and I can't bear the thought of not making it."

"Timothy, what does Dr. Young have to say about your fears?"

Tim said something unintelligible.

"What was that?"

"I haven't told her."

"Whyever not?"

"It's not supposed to be a big deal. That's why they do the slow tapering in the first place...so that we don't have problems with stopping. ...but..."

"Timothy, from what I understand, Dr. Young is an expert. Is that correct?"

Tim nodded.

"If she is, then I would naturally assume that she has dealt with fears like yours before. You should tell her."

Tim, if anything, hunched his shoulders even more.

"Why did you come to my home at five in the morning? It's flattering but I know that I am not the closest person to you...geographically or otherwise."

"I...I don't know." Tim's voice was hopeless. "I was...driving...for a few hours and...saw that...that I was near here and...I don't know."

There was a silence.

"I wouldn't have knocked. I knew it was early. I was trying to be quiet...but I tripped on the bottom step.

"Yes, it's a bit of a boobytrap," Ducky said. "Don't worry. I'm used to be awakened at this hour...only in the past it was Mother." He sighed.

"How do you like that?"

"What?"

"Her being gone? ...in a nursing home?"

"I don't. Really, it's only borrowed time now. Soon, she will have to pass on, but no one can say that she didn't have a good life."

"I'm sorry, Ducky."

"It's the way of the world. People grow old and die. We can't stop that trend, nor do I believe that we should."

"But you'll miss her, won't you?"

"Of course. She's my mother. It's hard to let go of people who are important to us."

Tim nodded and didn't speak again.

"Timothy, would you like to come in and have some tea?"

Tim jumped up. "Oh, I don't want to be a bother...I..."

"No bother. To be honest, it would be nice to have someone around. I have not yet become accustomed to living alone again."

"Okay...if you're sure."

"I am. One more thing that I'm sure of, Timothy."

"What?"

"You need to talk to Dr. Young about your fears. That's the only way you'll be able to get over them."

Tim nodded again and swallowed nervously as he followed Ducky inside.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Dr. Young?"

"Ah, Tim, you're right on time. The group's about to start."

"I...uh...I need to talk to you."

Dr. Young smiled at him. "Good. That's why you're here."

"No...not...not in group."

"Yes, Tim. In group. Therapy is accomplished both ways, not just alone...and thus far, you haven't been utilizing this tool."

"Please..."

Dr. Young was sympathetic but stern. "In group, Tim. Come on."

Reluctantly, Tim followed her back to one of the larger rooms. The group was small, only four others besides Tim, but he had never felt able to talk. They were people who had become addicted because they had been prescribed benzodiazepines, not because they had chosen to break the law. He felt like he shouldn't be meeting with them and thus had said little beyond the short introduction Dr. Young had forced him to make. No matter how many times he was told that it didn't matter...it did matter. The situations mattered...and they were different. The other people in this room were infinitely more admirable than he was. However, feeling that he had no choice in the matter, he sat down in the empty seat, trying not to be totally obvious that he was avoiding making eye contact with anyone else in the circle.

Dr. Young began the session and Tim listened as the others talked about the steps they were making. He was happy for them. He really was. They were much further along in their recovery than he was. In fact, two of them would be getting rid of the last of their medication in less than a month. Tim just didn't think he'd ever make it that far...and he didn't want them to know just how disreputable he really was. Dr. Young looked at him a few times but he didn't say a word. Finally, as the session was winding down, she took matters into her own hands.

"Now, before we stop for the day, Tim has something to say."

Expectantly, all the eyes turned toward him and it was all he could do not to push back his chair and run away.

"What? The strong silent type is going to speak?"

"Beth."

"Sorry," Beth said, smiling a little. She had been prescribed nitrazepam for acute insomnia and then found herself addicted to it when she tried to stop using. She was generally the most outgoing of the group. "I don't think I even remember what his voice sounds like."

"Beth."

"Sorry. Go ahead, Tim," she urged.

Tim tried to smile, but he couldn't make his face muscles contract in the correct manner. Instead, his eyes dropped to his lap and he didn't say a word. There was a subtle shift in the mood of the room.

"What's wrong, Tim?" Reagan asked. He'd become addicted to lorazepam after taking it for help with his anxiety.

Dr. Young leaned forward. "Tim, we can't help if you won't tell us the problem." She paused and then continued. "Is this about cutting your dosage?"

Tim nodded mutely, still staring at his hands.

"What is it?" Beth asked.

"I'm afraid," Tim finally whispered. "I'm terrified."

"Of cutting your dose?" Reagan asked.

Tim nodded again and felt the tears that always seemed to be there prick his eyelids. No one spoke; they just waited. Tim tried to get control of himself, not wanting to cry in front of the others.

"I don't think I can do it."

"Why not?"

"I'm not...I'm not strong enough to...to face it again."

"Face what?" Alison asked. She had also been addicted to lorazepam but, after nearly a year, was down to three milligrams of diazepam per day and was nearly ready to step down again.

Tim looked desperately at Dr. Young, but while she smiled sympathetically, she did not speak, leaving it to him to tell his story. He saw, however, that she understood his problem, his fear. Carefully, he took off his jacket, revealing his lacerated arm.

"I...I did this to myself...after...after they made a mistake and didn't make the right shift between the temazepam I'd been taking and diazepam. Before that...I thought I was going to die from...from trying to stop. I almost did. I saw...awful things...and I felt...like I was dying." He looked back down at his lap and saw a tear drip from his eye onto his hand, followed by two more. "I can't do it again. I can't...can't stand the thought of...of facing it...and...and I don't want to mess up...screw up my life any more than I have already. I just...I'm afraid."

"Oh, Tim," Beth said, after the surprised silence. "Oh, it's not like that at all...not most of the time." She reached out and grabbed his arm. "You're taking diazepam, right?"

Tim nodded at his lap.

"Then, you're taking a number of pills. All you have to do is...is stop taking _one _of them. It's no big deal."

"What if it is?"

"Hey, that's why we're here sitting in a circle every week, isn't it?"

"I'm certainly not here because of the happening night scene," Reagan put in.

Tim managed to laugh, but it didn't sound much like a real chuckle.

"You're all different, though. You got on them because of a real problem. I...I did it illegally. I..." He couldn't finish.

"You had a real problem, too, Tim," Dr. Young said. "You just didn't have the tools to adequately address that problem. _That_ is nothing to be ashamed of. I keep telling you that."

"You're here for the same reason we all are," Erik said, finally joining the conversation. Addicted to loprazolam which he had been taking for chronic insomnia, he had actually begun abusing it before an intervention by his wife and children had convinced him to get off it. He wasn't a big talker. "We're all addicts here, Tim, and we all want to get clean. It doesn't matter how we got here, only that we're here...voluntarily."

"When are you supposed to step down?" Beth asked.

"Tonight. I already put it off once."

"Okay. Look, here's my number. If you have problems when you take your dose, you can call me, but really...it's not as bad you think..."

"...and it only gets worse if you think it will be," Alison added. "That was my problem when I first started withdrawing. I was so afraid of the possible symptoms that I made them worse."

"And I'll bet that your family would be more than happy to help you out, right?" Beth asked.

"They don't know."

"They don't know?" Erik repeated in surprise. "Why not?"

"I don't want to...to tell them. It's bad enough that my friends know."

"We're nice people, Tim," Reagan said, "but we can't take the place of your family and friends. We'll all move on and so will you. You need other people to help."

"I...I know."

Dr. Young again intervened and they continued to talk about their experiences with stepping down for the first time. When the session ended twenty minutes later, Tim felt a little less of the terror, although he was still afraid. Dr. Young held him back.

"Tim. If it really is too difficult for you, you can put it off again. This has to be done at your own pace."

"No. If I don't...try...I won't ever. I need to."

"Eventually, yes, you do, but I don't want you trying to live up to nonexistent expectations. If you do still want to try it tonight, don't be afraid to take up Beth on her offer, and as I said before, you can call me if you have trouble."

"Thanks, Dr. Young." He turned to leave.

"And Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"They're right about your family."

Tim didn't answer. He just left.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Nighttime came as it always did, and found Tim staring at the bottle of pills which was sitting on his counter. He'd been staring for about ten minutes. Jethro was nudging his food dish, hoping for more, but Tim didn't hear him.

_Everyone says I can do this. I seem to be the only one worried. Beth is right. It's only one pill. Only one. It's not the same. I can do it. I can do it._

Finally, with a deep breath, he opened the bottle and, with the same care he used every night, placed his pills out on the counter, one at a time...and stopped with one less than he'd been taking. With shaking hands, he capped the bottle and put it away. Then, he took the pills with water, washed the glass and put it away. The fear was so intense, however, that he pulled out his phone and dialed Beth's number.

"_Beth Singleton."_

"Beth. It's Tim...from the clinic."

"_You did it?"_

"Yeah."

"_You scared?"_

"Yeah."

"_Don't be. You won't even notice, not at first. There might be some problems. Everyone is different, but they won't be nearly as bad as what happened to you before."_

Tim talked to her for a few minutes and Beth was nothing but encouraging. Slowly, he felt his fear start to ebb as none of the dire side effects he'd been fearing occurred and he felt much the same as he had before. Finally, he said good-bye to Beth and went and got ready for bed. After his nightly ablutions, he pulled back the covers and lay down. Jethro was on his dog bed. After a few minutes, Tim whistled softly. Jethro's head was up in an instant.

"Come on, Jethro. You can come on the bed, tonight. Only for tonight."

Jethro needed no urging. He was curled up beside Tim in seconds. The warm furry body was comforting and Tim needed that. He turned onto his side and pet the firm back, feeling the inhalations as they expanded his ribcage.

"That's it, Jethro," he said softly. "First step."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: Stage Nine**

As promised, the tapering was as anticlimactic as everyone had told him it would be. The first few days saw him with increased tremors and mild insomnia, but they faded after a week and Tim actually felt a slight building of his confidence, a tentative hope building that he might make it after all. Technically, using a typical tapering schedule, Tim was on stage four, but the mistake made in shifting him over to diazepam as quickly as had happened, had actually skipped stages one through three.

He stayed on stage four for two weeks, his confidence not high enough for a single week. He went back to work at NCIS after beginning stage five. His schedule was light to begin with and his inability to deal with stress was painfully obvious at the start. Deadlines, being hounded for data, needing work to be done right then...they all left him in a quivering mass of goo. He just couldn't deal with it in a healthy manner, and when that was realized, people, Gibbs in particular, eased up. He was working on getting back to his usual work schedule, but he wasn't ready for it yet, and it was important to remember that fact.

Stage six passed without much fanfare, and Tim went onto stage seven after only a week, only suffering a day's worth of increased withdrawal symptoms. He had been invited to a party celebrating Alison's complete withdrawal from benzodiazepines. She would be coming to group for another few weeks, but she was no longer taking anything and her example made group sessions easier to attend.

Tim met with the EAP counselor twice a week, once at the beginning and once at the end. He talked with Vance and they tentatively set a date for his return to field work to begin in a few more weeks. Tim was nervous but also excited at the idea. It was a huge boost to his self-esteem that Vance had enough confidence in him to allow him such responsibility again. In fact, the shift to stage eight was easier than any other step had been. Tim didn't even notice the decrease...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Where's McGee?" Gibbs asked, looking at Tim's empty desk. Today was supposed to be the day that Tim began field work again...and he was late...and the last time he'd been late was...

"I do not know," Ziva said, more worried than she wanted to be. "He has not answered his phone."

"I was just going to go over and check to..." Tony trailed off, not wanting to say what was still in everyone's head. "...to see if he's sick," he finished lamely.

Gibbs looked at him and then at the empty desk again. He nodded. "Go. Ziva and I will meet Ducky at the scene."

"Yeah, Boss." Tony sprinted to the elevator.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tony knocked on the door, trying not to worry, trying not to think of what he might find inside. The door opened a crack.

"Tony...what...what do you want?" Tim's voice was nervous, hesitant...ashamed.

"You're late, McGee," Tony said, trying to discern Tim's current status.

"Yeah...I know...I'm...not coming in...today...I can't...sorry." The door started to close.

"Hey!" Tony stopped the door just before it latched. "What's up, McGee?"

"N-Nothing...nothing, Tony...I just can't come in." There were tears in his voice.

"What's wrong?" Tony asked. "Come on, McGee, let me in."

"No, Tony. No, I don't want to. Just...Just say I'm sorry." Tim again tried to close the door, but Tony wouldn't move his foot.

"McGee, what's wrong?"

Tim's pressure on the door finally eased up and he stepped back, allowing Tony to come inside. The apartment was...not a mess, but rather untidy. Tim himself was untidy, still in his sweats and unshaven...and he was shaking, dark circles under his eyes.

"McGee..." Tony's heart sank.

Tim turned around to face him directly. "It's not what you think...it's not, Tony. I promise. It's not."

"What is it, then, McGee? If it's not what I think, then what is it? What's going on?"

Tim walked over to his chair and sat down, his hands hanging limply. Jethro came over and nuzzled them.

"I thought it would be no problem. I was so sure that I could do it. I thought that...that there was no way I'd be...but I was wrong. Oh, I was so wrong."

"Wrong about what, Probie? Make sense!" Tony said, his nerves jangled.

"I knew that...well..." He swore and clenched his hands into fists. "I hate it when they won't stop shaking."

Tony relented. "Tell me what happened," he said, more gently.

"Everything's been going so well, you know. It was so easy. I was feeling better...clearer than I...than I ever had felt before." He looked up and a few tears escaped. "I stepped down again."

"Again? Wait..." Tony sat down on the writing desk chair. "Wait. You just started stage eight on Wednesday."

Tim nodded and closed his eyes, dislodging more tears. "I've screwed it up. Totally. Completely."

"So...last night?"

Tim shook his head.

"When?"

"Friday."

"After two days? Probie, are you crazy?"

Tim started crying in earnest and he bent over, shielding himself from Tony's accusation.

"I just wanted to be...be further along. Just one more step. The closer I get...I want to be done, clean, and I thought...I thought that...that eight was so easy. So easy...and I was wrong. I...I haven't...haven't slept since Saturday, and I can't settle. ...and I can't find my sock."

"Your sock?"

Tim laughed through his tears. "I was doing my laundry...at three this morning...because I couldn't sleep...and I...I lost one of my socks. I know it's stupid but...I haven't been able to stop looking for it...but I can't find it...and I..." He let out an hysterical sob. "Everyone's been so great...and now I've messed it up...again. I always mess it up. ...and I still can't find the stupid sock!" Jethro whined and licked at Tim's face.

"McGee..." Tony began and then winced at the sound of his own voice. He obviously couldn't lecture Tim more than Tim had been berating himself. "McGee," he tried again. "...is this a _lucky _sock?"

Tony heard another tear-filled laugh. "No. It's just a sock."

"Okay." He stifled a sigh. "Okay. Don't you have things you're supposed to do to help you...work through your anxiety?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. You...do that," he said, gesturing vaguely. "I'll see if I can find your sock." He stood up and began to walk into Tim's bedroom, where he could see clothes flung every which way. He stopped and walked back to Tim. He crouched down. "You didn't mess everything up, Tim. You didn't. It's okay." Tim didn't look up, but he nodded. Then, Tony stood up and walked into the bedroom.

As he searched for the elusive sock, he was vacillating between fury that Tim had done something so stupid and sadness that Tim's eagerness to move forward had only set him back. It wasn't as though he'd been trying to take his drugs again. That was the worst part. He'd been trying to take _fewer_ drugs.

He began to repile the clothes, shaking them out, knowing the wily ways of roving socks. The one unpaired sock was solid black, nothing special...except that it wasn't paired. He could see what had happened. In an effort to direct the frenetic energy, Tim had poured it all into finding that single sock...and being unsuccessful...

Finally, after ten silent minutes, Tony dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. Lo and behold, there was the elusive black sock.

"Found it, Probie!" He strutted back to the main room holding the sock up like a trophy. Tim was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, no longer shaking, no longer full of that disturbing energy. He was listless, breathing deeply and resting his head on his hands. "Wow, that anxiety stuff really works."

Tim shook his head. "No...well, yeah, it does, but..." He sighed. "Thanks for finding my sock."

Tony stared at Tim, Jethro weaving back and forth and his feet, obviously fretting...as much as a dog can fret. He knew the depression would come after the anxiety. They'd all become familiar with Tim's crests and troughs as he'd come to work. He always tried to hide the shifting symptoms, but he wasn't good at it and they could see it...and modulate their behavior accordingly.

"No problem. I had an advantage."

"What...you weren't addicted to drugs?" Tim mumbled.

"No. I've been a bachelor doing my own laundry longer than you have."

There was a hiccuped laugh...which quickly stopped. Tony walked over and sat beside him.

"I should just give up," Tim said. "I was stupid to think I could do this. I'll call Vance and tell him that I'm quitting."

"No, McGee."

Tim sat up and Tony could see that his eyes were red-rimmed. He was trying to hold back the tears. "Look at me. Even when I'm trying to get _off_ the drugs, I make stupid decisions and end up...screwing up. That's...That's not how an NCIS special agent should act. I shouldn't have been hired and I'm only going to put everyone at risk if I keep it up. I should just resign and save the time...before I get one of you killed because of my stupidity."

Tony turned Tim toward him and held his gaze sternly. "No, McGee. You know this not you talking. This is the depression that you've been fighting. It's just a little stronger today than usual. It's not as bad as you think. A few more days and you'll be back on schedule."

"Can't go back. I wanted to...but I can't go back. That's the rule, and I don't want to mess up more." Tim's head dropped, shaking loose the tears. "Move forward or stay still, but I can't do either one."

"Yes," Tony said patiently. "Yes, you can. McGee, you fought back from nearly killing yourself. This is nothing. A sock? Nothing...and I found it."

"Yeah. _You_ found it. I couldn't."

"Like I said, more experience."

"You know that's not it, Tony," Tim said, lifting his head.

Tony let himself be serious. "I know. It's not, but it's not what you're saying either. Yeah, I could find it because I'm not withdrawing from drugs, but you _not_ finding it is not the end of the world nor does it mean that you're a failure. Losing a sock is not grounds for dismissal."

Tim laughed through his tears. "Such a stupid thing."

"Yeah, but it's okay. McGee. Listen to me: It's okay. You hear me?"

Tim nodded, closing his eyes tightly.

"Okay, now, you tell me what has to happen...and resigning is not one of the options, okay?"

"I...I can't go to work like this," Tim said, his voice determinedly calm.

"No, probably not."

"I should call and..." He stopped to swallow the tears again. "...and explain why I was late...and then...then, I'll...um...I'll need to call Dr. Young...tell her...what I did...and...and...are you sure I didn't mess everything up again?"

"I'm sure. I'll even explain to Gibbs why you're not going to be at the crime scene. Will you be okay alone?"

Tim nodded. "Yeah...I won't really be alone. I'll have Jethro." He gave a watery smile and patted the German shepherd on the head. "How could I go wrong?"

"You're not going wrong. The only problem is that you were too excited, McGee. That's it. You just need to follow the schedule you set up."

"I know. I _know_, Tony. I'm just so tired of it." He slumped back over the counter. "I'm so tired."

"It'll work out. It will."

Tim nodded, but Tony didn't think he really believed him.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Everyone was understandably disappointed but understanding, nevertheless. Tim's return to field work was pushed back by a couple of weeks and when he returned to NCIS, he was back at his desk, working hard again...but all his carefully rebuilt confidence was gone. His self-esteem, always on shaky ground, seemed to have disappeared. Stage nine lasted for another week...then, another. Tim degraded into a low-level depression that never quite lifted, in spite of everyone's encouragement and urging. Even Dr. Young had said that this kind of thing happened sometimes and it was actually a good sign because it showed his dedication to getting off benzodiazepines. Not even that helped. It was beginning to look as though he'd stall in the middle of the 18-stage withdrawal, having lost all belief in his ability to do what was necessary.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: Stage Ten**

Tim stared at the pills on his counter, enough for stage ten. He'd been staring at them for fully ten minutes. It was...not the right time.

"I can't do it, Jethro," Tim said. "I can't." Tears pricked his eyes. "I just can't." Slowly, he shook out another pill and set it carefully next to the others on the counter before putting the bottle back on its shelf. Then, he methodically took each pill, a sip of water after setting each one on his tongue. When they were all gone, he washed the glass, set it next to the bottle of pills on the shelf and walked over to where Jethro was eating his dinner. He sat down next to the German shepherd and began petting him lightly.

For the millionth time, Tim just wanted it all to be over, no matter what course that meant he had to take. He didn't particularly care if that meant death or if it meant cure. All he wanted was for it to be over. ...but every night, he took his pills. He tried to make himself step down and he couldn't. Every night, it was the same. Every night, he told himself that he could do it...but the trouble was that he didn't believe that. He knew he couldn't. He'd proven that already...more than once. His whole life had stuttered to a stop, and Tim didn't know how to get it going again. All he knew was that he hated himself for his weakness. He hated that he couldn't stop. He hated that he couldn't move forward. He hated the situation that left him sitting on the floor, doing nothing to fix the wreck of his life.

He stopped petting Jethro and drew his knees to his chest, rocking slightly in the silence of his apartment. There wasn't enough in him to sob now. All he had was the latent hatred and the fear, the knowledge that he would never make it. A wet nose nudged his face and Tim smiled slightly as he turned his head to meet his dog's eyes.

"You never give up on me, do you, Jethro?" he whispered.

Jethro's ears pricked at the sound of his name and he began panting, breathing dog breath, tainted with the smell of dog food, in Tim's face, but Tim didn't mind. To be honest, he was surprised no one had come over to try and cheer him up. They didn't come over every night, knowing as they did that their presence often made him feel guilty more than anything else, guilty because he wasn't making the progress they were so sure he could.

A whimper brought his attention back on his dog. Jethro nudged him again.

"Time to go out?" he asked and smiled again as Jethro began leaping eagerly. "Okay, okay. Let's go." Slowly, he stood up, took the leash which Jethro had retrieved as soon as Tim had agreed. "Same place as usual?" Tim asked as he opened the door. Jethro answered by yanking his arm out of its socket and pulling Tim down the hall.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim sat on a bench and threw the ball, watching Jethro run after it, barking madly as he disturbed a flock of pigeons. Tim laughed at the sight, glad of the distraction. In moments, Jethro was back, dropping the ball at Tim's feet and bouncing around in eager anticipation. Tim picked up the ball and threw it again. The pigeons had learned this time and settled out of the path of the rampaging German shepherd, but Jethro wasn't above changing his trajectory to put them to flight again.

"One of these times, Jethro, they're going to fight back," Tim said as he watched the approach.

"When are you?"

Tim jumped and turned around. Ziva was standing behind him.

"Ziva! What are you–? How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to see that you are still able to smile," she answered. "Something I was beginning to think could not happen again."

Jethro barked impatiently and nosed the ball closer to Tim who picked it up and threw the ball again. Off the dog went.

Tim tried to smile, but seeing her brought it all back again. He could see that she noticed.

"We do not judge you, McGee," she said, her voice tinged with frustration. "Why do you think we do?"

"I don't. I know you don't judge me."

"But you keep judging yourself. Why? You have heard us all say that it is all right. You have heard Dr. Young say that it is not unexpected. You have heard Vance tell you that he understands. _Why_ must you think the worst of yourself?"

Jethro came loping back. Sensing the change in Tim's mental state, he dropped the ball and put his head on Tim's knee, drooling all over it. Tim absently began petting him. He couldn't look at Ziva, couldn't face her.

"Every time I think I'm finally doing something right...it's wrong," he said, staring at the pigeons which had tried once more to settle in the field now that the raging monster had gone. "I thought, back when I first started using, I thought that it was impossible for something that worked so well...for it to be bad. How could it be? It kept me from failing. It stopped the nights when all I could do was lie in bed and worry. How could that be wrong? ...but it isn't a good thing. It never was."

Ziva didn't speak, allowing Tim to explain...hoping it would help.

"I thought, the night after I nearly killed Jethro that if I just stopped taking it, it would be okay. I'd go back to how I was before, maybe a night or two of less sleep, but no problem. I was wrong. It nearly killed me. I thought, when they screwed up switching the dosage, that if I just could get all the blood out of me that it would be okay. I could...I don't know...I wasn't thinking clearly enough to know what would really happen, but I thought... 'this will make it all better.' I was wrong. I thought...that I was doing so well, that I could only get better from there. I thought...why stop at stage eight when I'm feeling so good? I thought...how amazing it will be when I go to work and can tell everyone that I'm another step closer...one less pill to take." Tim brushed away a tear. "I was wrong."

The sun was on the way down and Tim stared at it, gray light filtering through the trees.

"I can't be wrong again."

"Yes, you can," Ziva said. "You will. No one is perfect, not even you."

"You know what I mean. I can't be wrong about this...and I'm not strong enough to face it anymore...but I can't live like this...I can't live knowing that I'm still an addict. I can't live taking these drugs for the rest of my life. ...but I can't bear to try again...because I won't make it."

"You will, McGee."

"No," Tim said, shaking his head. "No...I won't. That's the worst part. Knowing that you all think I'm stronger than I am. I can't do it. I've tried. I can't. Maybe being an addict is all I'm good for."

"It will kill you, McGee."

"Maybe that's the best thing."

Ziva grabbed him by the shoulders and wrenched him around to face her, disturbing Jethro from his position. He paced back and forth uncertainly. Ziva was known to him to be a friend, but she seemed to be threatening his master. He whimpered.

"No! No, I will _not_ let you...fade away, McGee! I will not _allow_ it! Not when you have come so far! Not when you are a part of us...not when you are the first friend I had here and when you have become the closest friend I have. You have made mistakes! Yes, I know. Everyone does. Sometimes those mistakes are huge...sometimes they are small, but we all make them. It is a part of being...being human. Why can you not understand?"

Tim stared at her, not sure what to say, not sure what to do. He just stared and she sighed...slowly letting him go.

"I do not know how to reach you, McGee. I do not know how to make you fight again. If I could, I would make you see what I see, what we _all_ see...but I cannot force you. You cannot see through my eyes, cannot see how much it hurts me to see one of the best men I have ever known falter and think he is only worthy of death."

"I can't do it, Ziva. I can't."

Ziva leaned forward earnestly. "Will you let me _help_ you then? Will you allow me to help you take the step that I _know_ you can take?"

"It's too late. I've already taken my dose for tonight."

Finally, Ziva smiled. "There is always tomorrow."

Tim turned away from her and stared at the ground, at the slobbery ball laying at his feet.

"I just want it to be over."

"It can be...if you are willing to try again."

"I've tried...so many times."

"Let me help you try again." Her voice was quietly persuasive.

"I don't know."

"Please, McGee. Let me help you."

Tim stood and stared westward. The sun was much lower and he looked back at Ziva, still sitting, waiting for him to answer her.

"Okay."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The next day, Tim was even more distracted than usual. All he could think about was the coming night. He didn't know if Ziva had said anything to the others, but they weren't berating him for his actions...or lack thereof.

Before he knew it, the day was over and he was gathering his stuff in preparation to head home. Something in the way Gibbs and Tony bid him good night told him that Ziva had said _something_ about what was going to happen. He was terrified. As they left NCIS, Ziva stopped and whispered that she would come in an hour. He nodded, unable to speak in his fear. When he got home, he couldn't eat anything. His stomach was a churning mass of anxiety. Jethro sensed it and was agitated, but calmed down after a short walk...Jethro did. Tim did not.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Ziva, I don't think I can," Tim said, staring at the pills he'd set out: enough for stage ten.

"Let me help you," she said, calmly and filled Tim's designated glass with water. Then, she capped his bottle of pills and set it on the shelf. "Take them."

Trembling, Tim did so, one at a time, as usual. After the last pill had been swallowed, the glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. Tim jumped back and then sank to the floor, sobbing.

"Stay there, McGee. I will clean it up. Jethro, stay!" she added as Jethro curiously poked his head into the kitchen area. She quickly swept up the glass and then mopped up the water. All the while, Tim rocked and cried, hugging himself tightly. Only when she was sure that there was nothing that would damage the residents of the apartment did she approach Tim.

"I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't," he wept.

Gently, she put her arms around him. "Yes, you can. You already have."

"No, I can't. I can't. I'm so afraid. Just one more. Please."

"No," Ziva said firmly. "You do not need it. It is only your fear. It is not the addiction."

"I can't do it. I can't. I'm not strong enough. I'm going to fall apart again."

"No, you are not."

After a few minutes on the floor, Ziva helped Tim stand up and supported him into his bedroom. She sat him down and then sat down beside him, holding him tightly as he continued to cry with a fear so deep that it could only be expressed in tears.

Jethro sat wagging his tail, making strange dog noises as he stared at them. _Let me up, too, _he was asking. Ziva reached out and patted the bed. Tim could use as much comfort as he could get. Jethro jumped up and curled beside Tim, his head in Tim's lap as Ziva continued to hold and rock Tim.

"I'm going to fail. I know it. I always fail," Tim said.

"You have not failed. You will not fail."

Tim's words faded after about an hour, but he didn't sleep. Although the tears stopped, his fear was palpable. Ziva didn't bother telling him that his fear would only make it worse. He knew that. He'd been told that so many times already. She just held him, helping in the only way she could: by being there.

Tim didn't fall asleep until after midnight and Ziva stayed.

...and he began stage ten...

...not in triumph...but in fear...


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: Stage Eleven**

Tim became conscious of sun shining on his closed lids. It was irritating. He opened eyes and sat up...or he tried to sit up. There was an arm around him...and a furry head on his knees. He pushed experimentally against the arm and it withdrew.

"McGee?"

"Ziva?" For a moment, he couldn't think why in the world she was there.

Then, he remembered.

"How do you feel?"

Tim didn't look at her. It was easy enough. She was behind him. He sat up, moved his legs, disturbing Jethro who bounded off the bed and into the main room.

"McGee?"

Tim shrugged. _Embarrassed. Stupid. Ashamed. ...Terrified._

"McGee, talk to me."

"I don't know," he said, staring steadfastly at the wall.

"Yes, you do."

Tim pulled himself to the edge of the bed and was about to stand when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It wasn't actually enough pressure to hold him down...but it was enough to make him pause.

"McGee, I told you before. We do not judge you. _I_ am not judging you. Look at me."

Tim shook his head, pressing his lips together in an effort to hold back the emotion that was so terribly close to the surface.

The hand disappeared and he felt Ziva get off the bed. He remained, staring at the wall...until she appeared in front of him, kneeling down so that he had to look away or look at her. She reached out and took his hand. It was trembling.

"McGee...how are you feeling?"

Tim breathed heavily, although he kept his mouth closed, and closed his eyes, turning his head to the side so that he couldn't see her when they opened eventually. A hand on his cheek pulled his head back around.

"Tim, look at me."

He shook his head again. He heard a sigh of frustration and felt her stand. Short Ziva might be in comparison to him, but at the moment, she towered over him in every way.

"Please, Tim."

Finally, Tim sucked in a loud breath and let it out in a fresh batch of tears. He was so humiliated by how often he'd cried since trying to stop taking temazepam. He dropped his head, bringing his hands up over his eyes as the tears fell more-or-less silently down his cheeks.

Another sigh, this one less of frustration, more of resignation...perhaps discouragement?

"Oh, Tim."

"I'm sorry. I just can't seem to–"

"No. No, do not apologize for something that is not shameful. You are frightened; you are nervous; your usual ability to cope with those feelings is absent. Crying is better than other things you could do. Do not be ashamed of it."

"Are you kidding? I'm like a leaky faucet. A human hosepipe," Tim said, trying to smile. "It's embarrassing."

"Perhaps, but it is not shameful. No one who knows what you are doing would try to say that you did not have the right to cry."

"That's all I seem to be able to do. I couldn't even take one less pill by myself."

"Tim, you faced a setback. You are afraid. It is not wrong to ask for help."

"I can't do any of it alone."

"Yes, you can. You have done so much with your own strength. One thing was all you needed to help you back onto the right track."

"I don't know, Ziva. I don't know. I don't feel like I can."

"Try, Tim. It is another week before you need to step down again. Just try. That is something you can do. Now that you have stepped down once, you can continue as you have done in the past. It is no harder. It is not easy, but you can do it. You are strong enough to do it."

"I don't feel strong enough."

"Will you promise me that you will try?"

"What if I can't?"

"Promise me. Promise that you will try to continue as you have begun. Will you?"

"Okay," Tim said, with a deep breath. "Okay, Ziva. I don't know if..."

"Try, Tim."

"What if it's not enough to try?"

"What do you stand to lose if you try and fail? Will you not be in the same situation as if you do not try at all? You might as well keep trying."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim kept trying. Every night when he took his pills, he would look longingly at the bottle, wishing that he could go back...but he didn't. He got a new glass and designated it his drug glass. It took four days of stage ten before he began to feel the faint stirrings of hope, the thought that perhaps this time he'd be okay.

His attitude shift, as minor as it was, became immediately apparent to his friends. His work was better, his willingness simply to interact with them increased. He seemed less ashamed of himself and more immersed in his tasks. He did not suggest going out into the field again, but neither did he suggest that he should be fired and abandoned as worthless.

Physiologically, the reason for the change was that his body was readjusting to the gradual decline in the level of diazepam and was relearning the way to function efficiently without it. Psychologically, he was recovering from the heavy blow to his self confidence and was regaining his self esteem.

Regardless of the exact reason, the improvement came as a distinct relief for everyone stuck on the outside watching Tim's struggles. It was hard for them to see him fight against himself and to know that all they could do was watch. Oh, they could lend their support...and they _did_ do that, but what it all boiled down to was that Tim had to fight this battle by himself. They knew he could win it, but he didn't always know that.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The day before he was due to step down again, Tim's anxiety began to increase once again. He had not forgotten his body's reaction to stepping down too early. He wasn't _quite_ as nervous as he had been before, but he was still more distracted, more worried...less confident.

They could see that he was headed toward a bad place, a place he'd been frequenting too often of late...and that was the last thing they wanted for him.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"McGee, time to go!" Abby announced.

Tim looked up from his computer and stared at her with confusion.

"Time? Why?"

"Because, Timmy, the day is over. That is why," she explained patiently. "We are going out."

Tim looked back at his monitor. "I don't really want to go anywhere, Abbs. Thanks though."

"Funny, I don't remember phrasing it as a request." She walked around his desk, flicked off his monitor, pulled on his arm, smiling winningly the whole time. "This is the time to let your hair down, to paint the town, to..."

"Abby, I don't want to do any of that," Tim said, trying to pull himself away from Abby's grasp. "Really, I appreciate it, but I don't want it."

Abby stopped playing and stared at him seriously. "Tim, if you don't let us distract you, it will only get worse. Come out with us tonight. Who knows? Maybe you'll even have a little fun for once."

Tim looked at her, at his now-dark monitor, and back at her. "I don't..."

"...want to have fun? Don't _deserve_ to have fun? Tim, have you had even _one_ day when you weren't either working or thinking about the fact that you've screwed up so royally that you're lucky people even look at you?"

Tim's head dropped for a moment and Abby was afraid that she might have gone too far.

"Yeah."

Abby furrowed her brow. "Yeah, what?"

"Yeah, I've had one day when I wasn't either working or thinking about the fact that I've screwed up so royally that I'm lucky people even look at me." His recitation of her exact words made her start to smile. What made her smile widen was Tim lifting his head and looking at her with the smallest suggestion of a twinkle in his eye. "I think it was two weeks ago. Sunday."

Abby laughed and slugged him.

"Well, you need to have one more. Please, Tim? Are you going to make me beg?"

"I'm tempted."

"To go?"

Tim sighed. "I really don't want to, Abbs. I just don't like the idea of...going out...not anymore."

"What will you do if you go home?" Before he could answer, she did for him. "You'll sit around, think about tomorrow night and work yourself into a state of anxiety which means you won't be able to sleep tonight and, more importantly, you'll worry Jethro!"

Tim couldn't help but laugh at that. "I see. You're more worried about the dog than about me. Figures."

Abby smiled but then sobered. "I mean it, Tim. You need a distraction and we care about you. Please, come out with us."

Tim hesitated for a moment and then nodded. "Okay."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It wasn't much, mainly for Tim's benefit, but it was dinner out with people, rather than hiding at home or working at NCIS...or in therapy. Tim was uncomfortable being around so many strangers. That was understandable, perhaps, but they wished he would relax. Of course, telling someone they need to relax rarely helps. Instead, they just kept the conversation going and after about an hour, Tim did begin to relax on his own; he stopped looking around, watching for people staring at him. He engaged more in the events around him, even cracked a few jokes.

By the end of the evening, they could almost pretend that there was nothing wrong with Tim, that everything was back to normal. ...almost. There was still a hesitancy about him, something that held him back from being himself. ...but really, who _was_ Tim?

That was the problem. They wanted to believe that Tim was still the same man they'd known before, but was he?

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Deep breath.

Let out slowly.

Tim stared at the counter. The pills were there, enough for stage eleven. He had tried with all his might to keep himself from being worried about it. That didn't stop his heart rate from increasing the closer the time came to taking this next step.

"Nothing happened after stage ten, Jethro. This should be a piece of cake, right?"

On Tim's command, Jethro was standing outside the kitchen area, looking anxious. Tim had never allowed him to come in while he was taking his pills. He was still terrified of dropping one. He whined, causing Tim to look over his shoulder.

"Right?"

Jethro sat on his haunches and panted at him.

"Okay. Nothing to it. One at a time, just like always."

One pill. A swallow. One pill. Another swallow. ...and so on until six. Then, he paused, pushing down his fear.

"Last one, Jethro."

He picked it up, set it on his tongue, took one more swallow and then, trembling slightly, he washed out the glass and set it, along with his bottle of pills, up on the shelf in the cupboard. Letting out a long shaky breath, he walked out of the kitchen and sat next to Jethro, petting him gently and letting him nuzzle his face. He sat for a long while and then hugged Jethro tightly.

"Thank you, Jethro. Thank you."

Stage eleven.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: Stage Sixteen**

Tim didn't mention his next stage to anyone and they didn't ask. Instead, he just went about his work, quietly, meticulously...but without fire. How to rekindle the blaze of curiosity, interest, _joie de vivre_, they just didn't know. Was it even possible?

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"We need to try again, Leon," Gibbs said without any preamble.

"Try what?" Vance asked, looking up from his desk with genuine confusion. Talking with Gibbs was always a crap shoot. He could be talking about pretty much anything in the beginning and it took a few seconds to sort out what particular decision he was trying to make for the Director.

"Putting McGee back in the field."

"What stage is he on now?"

"Started fourteen just a couple of days ago."

"I didn't notice any adverse reaction to that."

"I didn't either. That's why we need to get him back out there."

"He hasn't said anything to me about it."

"He's afraid to. We need to push him a little."

"Pushing doesn't seem to work for Agent McGee at the moment, have you forgotten?"

Gibbs sighed and sat down. Vance blinked a little in surprise. This must be serious.

"Leon, you know as well as I do that we're going to have to push eventually. McGee's going to have to be able to handle more pressure than we've given him to this point. If not, he'll be no good as a field agent...and he might even be a danger."

Vance knew Gibbs was right. He also knew that Gibbs didn't like it any more than he did. Whatever their professional disagreements, neither of them wanted Tim fired from the agency or demoted to a desk agent or even put in Intel or Cybercrimes. Those weren't really demotions, but they both knew that Tim would see them that way...and he would know the reason for shunting him sideways (or downwards if he went to Cybercrimes).

"When?"

"Today."

"You don't want to give him any notice?"

"No. That will only give him chance to freak out. He needs to get back to work. Sooner rather than later. Waiting will only make things worse."

"I appreciate your point of view, Agent Gibbs, but do you remember what happened the last time Agent McGee tried to push himself too fast?"

"I remember, but I also remember what dragging his feet did."

Vance took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It gave him time to think, to weigh the options, to make the choice Gibbs had now placed before him. Contrary to what Gibbs and some of the others in the agency might think, Vance did care about his individual agents. It was just that his position required him to focus on the broader issues. He couldn't deny that Tim was an asset in no matter what capacity, but he knew what Tim wanted for himself. He also knew that putting Tim in the field without knowing how he'd handle it was a risky proposition at best. ...and yet...

_Morrow gave me a chance,_ he thought to himself. _Not many would have in the same circumstances._

"I'd like to talk to him, Agent Gibbs. Is Agent McGee in yet?"

"He wasn't when I came in."

"Send him up as soon as possible."

"Will do."

Vance watched him go and hoped that his decision was the right one. The problem with being in charge was that, in the words of President Truman, the buck stopped with him. In theory, he could go to the SecNav or higher...but not for something like this. For dealing with a single agent, one whose actions would more than likely have resulted in termination under most directors, it required that whatever decision he made and whatever consequences came from it...it would all be his responsibility. Gibbs could (and probably would) blame him if it went wrong...but there was no one Vance himself could blame.

...except perhaps Fate who seemed to be doing her best to make things difficult.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim stepped out onto his front steps and for a moment was surprised by what he saw. The view was exactly the same as it had been every day since he'd first moved into the apartment years ago...but it seemed different somehow. He wasn't sure what it was. Things just seemed...clearer, more beautiful. The air seemed so clean. The sun was bright enough that it almost hurt his eyes.

He stared for a long while on the steps before coming to himself and realizing that he needed to get to work. He made a mental note to bring it up to Dr. Young. He wasn't sure if it was something he should worry about or not. If this was a feature of withdrawal, it certainly didn't seem like a bad thing...

...but then, Tim had learned through horrible experience that what he thought was good generally wasn't.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Morning, McGee," Tony said, barely looking up from his monitor. He yawned and his eyes started to close.

"Morning." Tim walked by...but then stopped. "Tony?"

"What?"

"Have you noticed anything...different about today?"

Tony looked up at him, seeming half asleep. "Different? How?"

"I don't know...just different. Maybe, richer?"

"I'm a whole lot poorer than I was...not richer...and I'm tired. Don't ask me questions like that after a long night of poker...especially when I lost." His eyes drooped again and he dropped his head to his desk.

"Okay." Tim walked to his desk, wondering what was different. Maybe it really was just him and there was something wrong. The depressingly-familiar signs of rising anxiety began to manifest themselves as Tim sat down. His stomach began twisting in discomfiting knots. Normally, he would have said that this was something positive, but what if it wasn't? He'd been so bad at making decisions in the last...fourteen years.

"McGee!"

Tim jumped and swallowed nervously as he looked up at Gibbs...just in time to see him throw a crumpled piece of paper at Tony's head.

"Y-Yeah, Boss?"

"Vance wants to see you."

"N-Now?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Tim stood up quickly, trying to ignore his own anxiety.

"Something wrong, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

"No..." Tim looked at the bank of windows, taking in the bright light from the sun. "No...Boss. I hope not." He mounted the steps before Gibbs could ask him for details and ran toward Vance's office.

Gibbs walked over to Tony and, at the last second, decided to forego the headslap and instead grabbed a small tuft of hair and lifted Tony's head up off his arms.

"Did I give you the impression that you weren't on duty, DiNozzo?"

Tony grabbed at his hair. "No, Boss. Ow!"

Ziva arrived just in time to laugh at him.

"Where's McGee?" she asked.

"Up talking with Vance."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Come in, Agent McGee. Have a seat."

Tim came in tentatively and sat down. As he looked at the desk, he was again amazed at how clearly everything was reported to his brain.

"Agent McGee?"

Tim looked up, eyes wide.

"Yes, sir?"

"Something wrong?"

"No."

Vance nodded. "Do you know why I've asked you in here?"

Tim shook his head mutely.

"I'm not going to fire you or lecture you, McGee; so calm down."

Tim nodded.

"Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"I don't think so, sir."

"What do you think _might_ be wrong?"

"Why did you want me here, sir?"

"I'm reinstating you as a field agent."

Tim blinked once. And then again. "What?"

"I'm putting you back in the field, Agent McGee."

"Why?"

Vance suppressed a smile. "You don't want to?"

"I...I...don't know if I'm ready...sir. I just...it seems...rash."

"Rash?" Vance repeated and then grinned. "I'm sorry, but only Ducky can get away with using the word _rash_ convincingly."

Tim couldn't keep himself from smiling as well.

"You're right...but why now?"

"Because you're ready."

"I don't feel ready."

"Why not?"

"I'm...still taking drugs, sir. I'm still getting off benzodiazepines. I'm not...trustworthy."

"I trust you, McGee."

Tim's head dropped as tears pricked his eyelids. He didn't want _that_ to be seen by the Director.

"Are you sure you should?"

"Yes. Is there something that I should know that would bring that into question?"

"Things seem different," Tim said quietly.

"What things?" Vance asked, keeping his tone light.

"Just...everything really."

"Different in a good way or a bad way?" he asked, patiently.

"I don't know." Tim looked up. "I feel like it's good...but I'm not a good judge of what's good and bad."

"What is it, then?"

Tim hesitated. Vance wasn't usually (okay, _ever_) his first stop in sharing confidences...but still...he _had_ given him a chance. "Over the last few days...things have been...I don't know how to explain it. Just clearer. I feel like the sun is brighter, like things are cleaner. I feel like I can see better now than I can ever remember seeing before. It's like...like I had a veil over my eyes and it's gone now."

Vance looked at him for a long moment.

"You're following your tapering schedule?"

"Yes."

"You should be getting close to the end now."

"Yes."

"That make you nervous?"

"Yes."

Vance smiled. "Well, Agent McGee, I'm no expert on withdrawal, but that sounds to me like a positive result of diminishing the amount of drugs in your system."

"You sure?"

"No. The sign on my door says Director, not Doctor...but I don't think you should worry about it."

"Can I worry about it a little bit?"

"If it makes you feel better. You're going out with your team the next case that comes in."

Tim swallowed.

"Isn't this something you want, Agent McGee?"

"Yes...yes, sir."

"You don't sound sure."

"It is what I want, sir. I just don't want to...do it wrong."

"You'll never do it right if you don't try at all."

"Yeah."

"So, get down there and do your job, Agent McGee."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim came down from the office and sat at his desk. He wasn't sure how he felt about going out into the field.

"McGee?"

Tim moved his eyes upward, only reluctantly, and met Ziva's gaze.

"Yeah?"

"What did Vance want?"

"Oh...nothing much." He tried to be nonchalant as he looked at Gibbs who was on the phone. "Boss, he wants me on active duty next case that comes up."

Even Tony's eyes brightened from their former droopy state.

"But that's great, Probie!"

"Yes, McGee. That is wonderful news."

"Yeah."

"What's wrong?"

"What if I'm not ready?" Tim asked. "What if this is the wrong time for me to be doing this? What if I screw up? What if I'm not really qualified for all this? What if–?" He didn't get a chance to continue the litany of self-doubt.

_Thwack!_

Gibbs had finished his call and come up close enough to deliver his own special brand of encouragement.

"Gear up. We've got a body washed up in Alexandria, dressed in full Navy uniform."

"So, I guess he falls under our purview, eh, Boss?" Tony asked, yawning.

Tim said nothing but began gathering his stuff. He checked his bag, making sure he wasn't forgetting anything...and then, he checked it again, just to be doubly sure.

"McGee."

Tim looked up and found Gibbs looking at him.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"You'll be fine. Let's go."

Tim flushed and nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder before following the others to the elevator.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Photos, McGee. Tony, talk to our witness. Ziva, bag and tag."

Tim gulped and nodded. It didn't matter that he felt completely able to do the work. He didn't trust his own feelings anymore. He began taking photos and noticed something sickeningly familiar on the wrist.

"B-Boss," he whispered.

"What, McGee?"

"This guy used drugs."

"What?"

"This guy used drugs."

"McGee..."

Tim heard the censure, and he swallowed.

"Honest, Boss! That's a track mark on his wrist. I...I should know, right?" He glanced fearfully at Gibbs, afraid of giving that reminder.

Gibbs didn't say anything but knelt down and looked at the exposed wrist.

"How did you even notice this, McGee? You can barely see it."

"It's obvious, Boss. It's right there."

Gibbs looked at him for a few seconds.

"Good eye, McGee. Go on."

"Y-Yes, Boss." Tim lifted the camera and continued taking photos, feeling both relieved and nervous.

When they got back to Headquarters, Tim was squinting in the sunlight and searching for his sunglasses. He didn't mention his worries to them...mainly because he'd already tried with Tony and didn't want to try again.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Abby?"

"Yeah?" Abby was intent on her screen.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Abby turned around. "You can _always_ talk to me, Tim. What is it?"

"I...Something's changed."

"In what part of your life?" she asked, with a smile.

"I feel like I can see better than I could before. I feel like...like everything is...clearer. I can see, hear...feel...it's all...better."

"That's great, Tim! So, what's wrong?"

"I'm afraid that...that something is wrong."

"Why?" Abby asked, scrunching up her face in confusion.

"This all started because of something I thought was a good thing. What if this is the same?"

She mouthed _oh_ in realization. "No, Tim. You're doing everything right. That means that this is a good thing. How could seeing better be bad?"

"How could sleeping better be bad?"

"It's different, Tim. Ask Dr. Young. I'll bet she'll tell you the same thing. Don't worry! You're getting your life back. That's a good thing."

"You sure?"

"I'm positive, Tim. You should be, too. Stop thinking that you're doing everything wrong."

Tim tried to smile. That was so much easier said than done.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"How are things going, Tim?" Dr. Young asked. It was their private session.

"Can you tell me if I'm...going right?"

"I can try," she said with a smile. "Can you be more specific?"

Tim explained to her his new experience, his return to field status, his better sight, and he felt that only she could really tell him that he was doing things right...because she was the expert and she had never pretended things were better than they were, not once. When he finished, he sat back and waited. She looked at him intently for a moment.

"Do you think this is bad, Tim?"

"No...but I thought starting on drugs wasn't bad either."

"So, because you made one mistake, that brings your judgment into question with everything you choose?"

"Doesn't it?"

"Absolutely not. Tim, you are experiencing one of the best things about getting off drugs. Your body is beginning to work as it should. Your senses are functioning as people who don't use drugs function."

"But it seems...a lot better than I ever had before."

"That's because your mind adjusts to the input it receives and functions as if that is normal. You are not seeing things better, only as they should be seen: through eyes unblinded by drugs."

"But I'm still taking drugs."

"You're on stage fourteen, heading toward fifteen. You are now taking four milligrams of diazepam, correct?"

"Yeah."

"You were taking more than three times as much when you started. This is great progress, Tim. Don't belittle the progress you've made. Don't question yourself because of past mistakes. Focus on what you're doing now. Judge your actions _now_, not your actions in the past. You can't forget what you did, but you can move on." She leaned forward and with a gentleness Tim had never seen from her before, she placed her hand on his arm. "Forgiving yourself for your past decisions is just as important, if not more important, than getting the forgiveness of your friends...and your family."

"I still haven't told them."

"I know, and you should, Tim."

"I'm almost off...couldn't it be..."

"Do you think your family would like finding out about this on accident?"

Tim shook his head.

"Think about it, Tim...and don't worry. I am much encouraged by what you've told me. Allow yourself to be encouraged as well."

"I'll...try."

"Good."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim's progress continued. He passed stage fifteen with only a brief flicker of anxiety. His anxiety was now about something other than his withdrawal. He continued to go out with the team, although he still didn't have that same spark they had identified with him in the past. He headed stalwartly toward the next stage and the night he began stage sixteen, he looked down at Jethro who was slobbering encouragingly beside him, and he knew what had to be done. He had known it for a long time but had feared it. Even now, he was terrified of the idea... but...

"I need to, don't I, Jethro," he said softly.

Jethro whuffled at him.

"You're right."

He walked to his phone and dialed.

"_Hello, McGee residence."_

"Hi, Mom. It's Tim. I...have something to tell you...and Dad."

"_What is it, Tim?"_

"I'm a drug addict."


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: Stage Seventeen**

"_What did you say, Tim?"_

"I...I've been...addicted to drugs...Mom."

"_Let me get your father on the phone. Whatever you're going to say, you shouldn't have to say this more than once."_

Tim had always appreciated Naomi's ability to keep control even when she wanted to scream, but never had he loved her for it more than at this moment when he needed her calm to help him continue. He waited and sat down on his bed. Jethro padded in and Tim patted the bed beside him. Jethro jumped up and began slobbering on Tim's shoulder. It was comforting...in a wet way.

The extension clicked on.

"_Tim, you said that..."_

"I'm addicted to drugs, Dad." Tim swallowed hard.

"_How long?"_

"Since I was seventeen."

The stunned silence on the other end of the line was what he had expected of his parents. They weren't ready for that, for knowing that Tim had hidden this from them for so long.

"_What...what have you been using?"_ Naomi asked carefully.

"Temazepam. It's a benzodiazepine. My roommate gave it to me when I was too stressed about my final exams. I've been using it...off and on ever since."

"_Tim...I...I don't know what to say,"_ Sam said.

"Not too many quotes about being a drug addict, right...Dad?"

"_I have to admit that I can't think of any at the moment."_

"_Are you getting off them, Tim?"_ Naomi asked.

"I'm...getting there, Mom. I've actually been withdrawing from them for months. I just didn't...want to tell you about it. I didn't want you to know that I..." Tim felt the tears and this time, he didn't try to hold them back. "...that your son had been such an idiot for...for so long."

Again, a long silence.

"_Tim...we love you. I can't say that...that I'm happy to know this, that I am proud of what you did, but...but you're my son. I will always love you no matter what. You hear me? You should never be afraid to tell us when you have problems."_

"I...I know, Mom. I know. I just...I felt so ashamed. I almost...killed myself, not on purpose but because I didn't understand how messed up my mind was. I never felt strong to tell you, to face that I might...might be...that you might not..."

"_Robert Frost said, 'Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.' Tim, we would never, _never_ turn you away. No matter what you'd done."_

Tim started to cry. "I'm sorry, Dad...Mom. I'm so sorry for what I did."

"_No, Tim. You don't have to apologize to us,"_ Naomi said. _"You didn't do anything to us. It's only to yourself...and you're fixing that."_

"I didn't trust you enough to tell you," Tim said, still crying. "I was so afraid of letting you know that I'd been...that kind of person...that I still am that kind of person."

"_What kind of person, Tim? Someone who isn't perfect? Who makes mistakes?"_

"I broke the law...and I justified it to myself. I could have killed myself or someone I cared about. I'm lucky that I didn't. I'm lucky that I didn't get fired. I shouldn't have been hired in the first place. I'm so...so _stupid_!"

He'd said the words many many times. He'd been assured of their falsity by nearly everyone...but he still felt the pang of his stupidity, the knowledge he had of how close he'd come to dying...and how close he could have come to killing someone. It tortured him as thoroughly as any killer could have. He hated himself when he truly thought of it.

"_Tim, you need to stop this. How long has it been since you started getting off them?"_

"A l-long t-time. I had to...to...relearn how to d-d-deal with things without using the drugs. I've had nights where I couldn't sleep because my heart was going so fast that I couldn't calm down enough to sleep. I nearly k-k-killed Jethro because I dropped one of the pills and he found it. I nearly lost it when I couldn't find a sock. I d-didn't think I could do it. I...I felt...felt..."

"_Like you were letting everyone down?"_

"Yeah."

"_Tim, the only person you need to worry about letting down is yourself. If you aren't meeting your own expectations, then you need to fix that...but don't worry about letting us down. It's your life."_

"But you're my family...and you invested so much time and told me so much about not doing drugs and...and...I just ignored it all because I...I wanted to do well in school."

"_Yes, Tim, I understand,"_ Sam said. _"There are so many things that could have gone wrong...and you can see every single one of them, can't you."_

"Yeah."

"_Tim, I want you to listen to me, okay? I'm your mother. Have I lied to you?"_

"Not that...I know of," Tim said, with a shaky laugh.

"_Exactly. I'm going to tell you something and I want you to listen because I mean every word of what I'm saying. You listening?"_

"Yeah."

"_What you did, choosing to use drugs...that was stupid."_ Naomi was one of those people who didn't mince words when she knew it wouldn't help. _"What you're doing now, admitting to being addicted, getting _off_ those drugs, fighting against all of those barriers, all those things that could make you just give up...that is truly admirable, Tim. That is a very good thing. Don't forget that, okay?"_

"_And one more thing, Tim,"_ Sam added.

"What?"

"_Don't leave us out. Don't keep us away because you're afraid of what _we_ might think. Don't go at this alone just because you think you can't possibly be worth the effort. You are worth it. No matter what...you _are_ worth the effort, Tim. Understand?"_

"Okay, Dad."

"_No, that's not a good enough answer, Tim. Desmond Tutu said, 'You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them.' You, Tim, are God's gift to us. Don't beat yourself down. Don't let yourself think that you aren't a good enough gift because we wouldn't change you for anything."_

"It's just that I hate..."

"_What you're doing, what you've done, the mistakes you made. We know, Tim,"_ Naomi said gently._ "What you need to remember, though, is that you can't change the mistakes you made...and what you're doing now is a very good thing. How much longer is the program?"_

"I just...I just started stage sixteen and...and there are eighteen steps in stopping. I'll be going to a program for a while afterward, just to make sure that I'm not going to backslide. I'm taking two milligrams of diazepam every day."

"_How much at the beginning?"_

Tim swallowed. He knew that his mother would want the details, the technical parts to his recovery. It was the way her mind worked. He just didn't like parading how far he'd had to come to get to this point.

"_Tim, how much?"_

"I was taking...over thirty of temazepam before I started the program. That's fifteen milligrams of diazepam. I had started escalating when they found me out."

"_Valium?"_

"Yeah. Basically."

"_Tim?"_

"Yeah, Mom?"

"_I love you."_

Tim felt the tears in his eyes again. What had he ever done to deserve parents like these?

"_We both love you."_

"I love you, too. That's why I was afraid to tell you. I love you so much that...I was afraid of letting you down."

"_You haven't. Ever."_

"_Do you want us to come, Tim?"_ Sam asked.

"_What he's really asking is if you'll let us come."_

Tim laughed thickly. "Not yet... It's only a couple more weeks before I...before I'm off them completely. Would you come for the end?"

"_Try and keep us away,"_ Sam said with parental fervor.

"_You just let us know and we'll be there."_

"_With bells on."_

Tim laughed again, feeling as though a weight he hadn't even consciously sensed had lifted from his shoulders...and it wasn't from Jethro's head...or from the damp patch where Jethro had drooled on him.

"I'll tell you...I promise."

"_You're a good man, Tim. Remember that,"_ Naomi said.

"_And remember that 'great works are performed not by strength, but by perseverance.'"_

"Samuel Johnson."

"_See? If you can name the originator, then you're doing fine."_

"I'll be more impressed if you can find a quotation about being a drug addict."

"_You're not one anymore, Tim,"_ Sam said quietly._ "From all you've told us, you're not a drug addict. You're a recovering addict and soon, you'll be recovered. There's no shame in that. None at all."_

"Okay. I'll try to remember that."

"_You do that."_

They all hung up after that. There wasn't much else to say, even after so long and such news as he had related. Tim sighed, almost with relief. Telling his parents was the hardest thing he'd done...and yet, it was probably the best thing he had done. There was no way that reality could have been as bad as the dire possibilities he'd dreamt up in his fear...but it was such a relief to know that his parents didn't hate him for what he'd done. Yes, they were saddened to know that he'd fallen so far, and they weren't going to excuse him or try to tell him that what he'd done was an act of anything but stupidity, but...

Jethro whuffled in his ear...and Tim laughed a little.

"Yes, you're right. I had nothing to worry about...and you're getting my shoulder all wet."

It was tempting, with this feeling of being buoyed up by the support of his family...support he could have had for much longer...it was tempting to use it to go on and skip this stage he was on, but no. No, sad experience had taught him the fallacy of that kind of thinking. Two milligrams and he'd stay on it for the length of time previously determined, but he felt, almost for the first time, that he could really make it. It was less about the drugs and more about his own mind...as he had been told before.

He thought back to that day a week or so ago when he had realized how much he had lost to drugs...and that he was getting it back.

And that was an unlooked-for gift, one he might not truly deserve, but one he had nevertheless.

A gift. He'd not waste it this time around.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

When Tim returned to work, there was a difference. Not night and day, but something. There was a determination to his step, to everything he did. It wasn't exactly his old spark, but it was such an improvement over just a short time ago that his team, his friends all tried to embrace it as if it _was_ the old spark.

Tim was out in the field. He was acting more like himself. Things were getting back to normal. ...except they weren't...because there was still, at the back of _everyone's_ minds, the same furtive, guilty thought: _Is this really normal?_

What was to be normal? Was it to be this new Tim who had faster reflexes, better powers of observation...but less joy in what he did? Was that enough? Was this what Tim would have always been like had there never been an addiction to drugs? Should they be wanting more or was it wrong to expect that Tim would be as he had been before? Was this what Tim himself wanted or did _he_ want more?

Regardless, stage sixteen passed and Tim moved on to stage seventeen, feeling the end that he had privately doubted would ever come, approaching almost too quickly to be believed. He was down to one milligram of diazepam per day and if he were honest with himself, taking that one pill every night had become a nuisance, one he would enjoy getting rid of.

And so...stage eighteen loomed large in everyone's minds.

What would come of Tim's final step? Who could really know?


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: Identity**

"How many more days until the end, McGee?" Tony asked.

"Two," Tim said shortly. He was trying not to think about it.

"You ready for that?"

"I hope so."

"You are," Ziva said with a smile.

"I hope so," Tim said again. "Can we not talk about it?"

Tony blinked in surprise. "Sure, McGee."

Tim set his bag on the floor and sat down. "Thanks." He turned his attention to his computer, running through the information from their latest case. He didn't look up when Gibbs came in, but Tony gave him a concerned look and Ziva managed to communicate her confusion silently as well. It had seemed as though the closer Tim got to being completely off diazepam, the less excited he was about it. He hadn't been exactly effusive throughout his withdrawal, but in the last week, he had begun working to the exclusion of all else. He didn't make jokes. He didn't show any interest in small talk. He was just there to work. He was an agent with no leavening of personality.

There were moments, glimmers of the "old McGee" that came out...like when Abby came up and tried to drag Tim out to lunch with her. His refusal was polite, almost wistful, but he smiled at her antics. ...but he still refused. Now, with his apparent need to avoid discussing his successful completion of the withdrawal program, it was strange and they were all secretly wondering the same thing: did Tim _want_ to be off drugs?

When the day was over, Tim waved good-bye, resisted any attempts to get him to do something after work and left.

"Boss?" Tony asked.

"I know." Gibbs looked at the elevator doors. "I'll take care of it."

He would...even if he had to force Tim to explain himself.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

One pill. That was all. He was taking one single milligram of diazepam...and soon, even that would stop.

...and then what? What came after that? Everything he had been doing seemed to be building toward this seminal moment...and there was no indication of what he should be doing after he stopped. He knew what the answer was, of course. He was supposed to go on and live his life. ...but what was that? What was it exactly? He just didn't know anymore.

He picked up the pill and stared at it in rapt contemplation. His whole world had revolved around decreasing the dosage, decreasing the amount of benzodiazepines in his system...to the point that he felt that was all that defined him. So...what now?

He sighed and took the pill, swallowed some water and then went through his ritual: washing the glass, capping the pill bottle, putting both safely up on a shelf in a cupboard.

"You ready to go out, Jethro?" Tim asked and smiled as Jethro did the I'm-excited-to-play dance. Jethro had been the one constant presence since his confession of his addiction. Every night, he was there. His loyalty was unfailing, his affection constant. Tim clipped the leash to his collar and was almost grateful for that horrible moment when he realized what his addiction had done...that Jethro had almost paid the ultimate price for his weakness. He would never have wanted that to be the way that things had to play out...but the fact that they had...Jethro had saved him...in so many ways.

Together, they jogged to a nearby park. Then, Tim let Jethro off the leash and watched him gamboling around the grass, wreaking his usual havoc on the roosting birds. Tim walked over to a picnic table and sat down on the top of it, not trying to think or feel...just being. Every so often, Jethro would run over and expect praise which Tim gave; then, he would go back to playing around. There were a few other dogs in the park and Tim kept track to make sure that Jethro didn't do anything Tim would later regret. Other than that, he just sat.

...until he saw Jethro's namesake walking across the grass toward him.

"Boss. What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"Why?"

"You want to tell me what's wrong?"

Tim thought briefly about denying there was anything wrong...but decided there wasn't much point to that.

"Do I _want_ to? Not particularly...besides, I don't really know how to explain it." He looked up to see what Gibbs' reaction would be to that...and was surprised to see a bit of surprise on Gibbs' face. He wondered why.

Gibbs sat down beside him on the tabletop. "Why don't you try it?"

Tim smiled a little. "Okay." Then, he had to pause because Jethro came running back over to be praised for his amazing canine prowess. Tim fawned over him as was expected and then pulled the omnipresent tennis ball out of his bag and threw it as hard as he could. Jethro barked wildly and took off.

"Well?" Gibbs asked.

"I guess...I guess it's that I don't know who I am anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"Tomorrow will be the last night that I take diazepam. That will be the last time I will be on drugs. The last time that I'm needing it to function in my daily life. ...and it's a good thing. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad that I'll finally be stopping, but..."

"But what?"

"But most of my life has been spent with a dependence on an illegal drug. The defining moments, the times that made me who I was...they were almost entirely undertaken with the...the _help_ of temazepam. My life has been defined, whether I like it or not, by drugs. I don't know who to be without them. I don't know what of my life is real...and what is a facade covering my dependence."

Jethro came back with the ball and Tim smiled before throwing it again.

"Once I stop taking diazepam, once I'm no longer _trying_ to stop taking drugs but have actually stopped..." Tim leaned forward and looked at Gibbs. "Who am I? Who is Tim McGee when he's not a drug addict?"

There was a long silence...broken by Jethro running back with the ball once more. This time, Gibbs took it and threw it.

"Who do you _think_ you are?"

"I'm just...not sure. I've been so...so focused on getting clean. Now that I nearly am...I just don't know _who_ I am when I'm clean. I've been using drugs for almost fifteen years, Boss! I was using drugs during the years most people are learning to cope with real life. I've had to learn that over the last few months. Now, I'm an agent, which I want to be, but what else am I? I don't know how to interact with anyone when I'm not needing them to help me function. You've all seen me lower than most people ever get in their lives. I couldn't have fallen much further than I did and survived it." Tim sighed as he searched for the right words to describe his state of mind. "I know that everyone has been worried about how I've been acting. I've noticed."

Again, there was a moment of surprise on Gibbs' part. Tim smiled again.

"I just don't know what to say to explain. I don't know...who to be. And what about you guys?"

"What do you mean?"

"How long will it take you to forget that I was addicted? How long will it take for you to think of me first as Tim McGee, NCIS agent, probie, geek...whatever...and second as a recovered addict? Will there be times when, if I'm running late, that you think maybe I've slipped back into my habit again? If I'm unreachable, will your first thought be that I might have overdosed? As much as _I_ don't know how to think of myself, I also don't know how you'll be thinking of me...and I'm finding that it's..."

Jethro came running back with the ball in his mouth, barking around it. Tim took hold of the ball, but this time, Jethro wouldn't let go. He gave his mock growl and made Tim fight him for it. Tim felt a little silly, but he figured that Gibbs had come here rather than waited until he got home. He'd have to deal with Tim playing with his dog.

The tug-of-war lasted a few minutes...and ended with Tim getting knocked down on his back while Jethro whuffled in his face.

"Okay, okay, Jethro. You win. The ball is yours," Tim said and couldn't help but laugh. He pushed the big dog off him and got up once more. Jethro deposited the ball on the ground again, but then he whined at Tim who rolled his eyes and settled on the grass so that Jethro could lay on him. "Sorry, Boss. Jethro has made his wishes known."

Gibbs chuckled and got off the table. "Okay."

Then, they sat in silence for a little while. Tim pet Jethro as he panted and demonstrated his contentment.

"Why haven't you mentioned this before, McGee?"

"Because I didn't know how to. I almost hoped someone would ask what was wrong because I couldn't think of how to start a conversation about it."

Gibbs nodded. "I can't promise that those thoughts won't be on our minds for a while."

"I know that," Tim said quickly. He lifted his arm. "I still have the scars from the beginning, Boss...and the scars that don't show...they'll always be there. I still look at my arm and I remember how clear it was to me at that moment. I was going to make everything better by getting all the drugs out of me. All at once." He laughed. "And now that I'm almost there, I feel as though I really haven't accomplished all that much. Stopping shouldn't be a major event. It _should_ be just another step in the process, but...but it's just not...I just don't know what to do."

"McGee, you know how I think of you?"

"McGee, the computer geek and least experienced member of your team?"

_Thwack!_

"No."

"Okay."

"Even though I know the problem started earlier, much earlier, I think of it as starting basically when we found out. Everything that came before is still you, still Tim McGee, NCIS special agent. I don't think of it as belonging to Tim McGee, drug addict. ...because that's never been solely who you are."

"I wish I could see it that way."

"McGee, you've never been one thing. You kept parts of your life secret...and that's your right. We all have parts of us that are ours alone, but your life is your life. That includes being an agent, being a recovering addict, being an author, being a geek. All those things make up who you are and you shouldn't make any one of them into _all _you are."

"I thought that maybe if I could get a handle on working again, everything else would fall back into place...but it hasn't."

"That's because you're _only _working. You've _never_ only worked. With DiNozzo around how could you?"

Tim laughed, still absently scratching Jethro's ears. The German shepherd's eyes had narrowed to slits and he was totally relaxed.

"But if I'm still Tim McGee...how do I be him without the drugs?"

"The same way you've always been him. You live your life, McGee."

"It should be that easy, but I'm finding it really hard."

"Well, for one thing, you should be honest about that. We know that it's been a long hard road. We know that you've had problems. Let us know that you're still working things out...and stop isolating yourself. Act like you have with your dog."

"I don't think Tony would appreciate me scratching behind his ears, Boss," Tim said, unable to suppress a grin.

"Probably not." Tim saw Gibbs grin as well. "You're relaxed here, McGee. You're not trying to prove anything. You've been honest with me and, miracle of miracles, you made a joke."

"I don't have anything to prove to Jethro."

"You don't have anything to prove to us either, McGee. We know where you've been...and we can see where you are now. What matters is that you _are_ here now. So loosen up...as much as you ever do."

Tim had to chuckle. "It's been a long road, Boss."

"Worth taking?"

"Yeah...I didn't always feel that way about it, but yeah, it's been worth it."

"Then, act like you think it's worth it. You're not burying anyone, McGee. You're just taking another step. What do your parents think about it?"

"They're coming tomorrow...they want to be here for the end. I'm not sure I want them here to see me." He held up his arm. "But they deserve to know...and to see...who I am."

"They already know who you are. That hasn't changed."

"Yeah...parents are weird like that," Tim said, remembering Abby's injunction from months before. He nudged Jethro. "Come on, time to go. I'm not sleeping in the park."

Jethro yawned and stretched, making some elaborate noises as he acceded to Tim's command. Tim laughed at him and got to his feet. Then, he hesitated and held out his hand to Gibbs. A wry smile crossed his face as Gibbs took his hand.

"Thanks for the help, McGee," Gibbs said drily.

"Turn about, Boss," Tim said with a smile. "I could never have made without your help. It's a debt I don't think I can ever repay."

They headed out of the park together in silence. When they reached Tim's apartment, Gibbs clapped a hand on Tim's shoulder.

"You have nothing to repay. Just keep on living. That's all we'll want from you."

"Tomorrow's the last day."

"No, it's the first, McGee. Don't think of it as an end."

"A beginning?"

"Either that or a continuation...but it's not an end."

Tim nodded.

"Thanks, Boss."

"Night, McGee."

Tim watched Gibbs walk to his car and looked down at Jethro.

"It wasn't a bad day, was it, Jethro."


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29: Stage Eighteen**

"Tonight's the last night," Tim said without preamble in the morning.

"You ready for it?" Tony asked.

He nodded. "I don't want a party or anything, okay?"

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to celebrate. I just want it to be over."

"If that's what you want."

"It is."

"Okay, McGee," Tony said reluctantly. "No party."

"I'm leaving early to meet my parents for dinner, but I'm not going to celebrate."

"You should, McGee," Ziva said.

Tim just shook his head and sat down. "No. ...so you can cancel the clown and the balloons."

Tony seemed almost startled at the concluding statement. He met Tim's glance and saw the small smile.

"Bozo was really excited. You have no idea," he said finally.

"Sorry to disappoint him."

Silence.

"When will your parents arrive?"

"This afternoon. We decided we need to talk about some things."

"So...after today, you're finished?" Tony asked.

"Finished with taking drugs, you mean?" Tim returned. "Yeah. No more taking drugs. You'll just have to deal with me as I am."

Ziva walked over to his desk. "I am glad of that, McGee," she said. "It is a good thing."

"Yeah."

"Hey, McGee, it's okay to be happy about it, you know."

Tim nodded and looked at his computer screen. "I know. I'm just not ready to be happy about it, okay?"

"Okay. Let us know when you are," Tony said.

"I will."

Gibbs came in moments later and directed them to get to work. He gave Tim a brief questioning glance and received a shrug in response. That was all.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

As the end of the day got closer and closer, Tim was filled with dread at talking with his parents. Whenever there was a spare moment, he noticed that his hand strayed to his arm, tracing the scars left over from his withdrawal. More than anything else, those were a symbol that would never go away...a label of who he had been...of who he still was. Tim knew that he would be a former addict for the rest of his life. That was a part of him and even though there was a part of him that wanted to excise that hard fact, he knew it was impossible. He had to accept it, but he couldn't do it without some loathing, even now.

That was why he didn't want to celebrate. He shouldn't be lauding himself over finally embracing a normal, i.e. _legal_, lifestyle. It was a relief, not a triumph.

He looked at his screen once more and then logged off. As he stood to go, he knew that Tony and Ziva were staring at him, that even Gibbs was glancing at him. He just smiled weakly at them all, not being able to bring anything more genuine out.

"See you tomorrow."

"Congratulations, McGee," Tony said.

Tim looked sharply at him, expecting a joke or a barb, but Tony was serious and he nodded at the unasked question.

"Thanks."

"Have fun with your parents," Ziva added.

"Thanks, Ziva."

Then, Tim got on the elevator. As it descended, he wondered if he would ever feel normal again...or if he had _ever_ felt normal in his life. Was every time he remembered being happy a time when he had been on drugs?

One more deep breath and he went off to meet his parents.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim stood outside the hotel for a few moments before walking inside. He knew they were supportive but it didn't make it any easier to see them for the first time.

_They're here. They're happy for me. Go inside, Tim._

He nodded to himself and walked through the lobby toward the elevator. When the doors opened, he jumped back at the sight of his parents just getting ready to get off.

"Mom...Dad...hi."

Naomi said nothing. She just walked to him and hugged him tightly. Sam rolled forward and pulled him from Naomi, downward so that he could hug Tim as well.

"I thought of a quote, Tim," he said softly.

"About being an addict? You read too much, Dad," Tim whispered.

"It took some time, I will admit. I suppose it's not specifically about addiction, but if it's not, I don't know what else could be."

Tim straightened. "So what is it?"

"Pearl S. Buck. 'None who have always been free can understand the terrible fascinating power of the hope of freedom to those who are not free.'"

"Nice one."

"Do you agree?"

Tim walked with them toward the front doors. "It's worse when you suddenly realize that you're a slave and you never knew it before."

"How does freedom feel?"

"Not quite free yet. One more night. Where do you want to go for dinner?"

"Let's go for a walk first, Tim. Is there a park near here?"

"Yeah. This way."

Tim led them down the sidewalk to a small parkette. He sat down on one of the benches. Naomi sat beside him and Sam put on his wheel brakes so that he was facing Tim directly.

"Talk, Tim."

"Tonight's the last night. I'll officially be clean."

"Do you _feel_ clean?" Naomi asked.

"In what sense?" Tim asked.

"Any."

"In terms of feeling addicted? Yes. Taking the pills has been more of an irritation lately. I'm ready to be done."

"In other terms?"

"I still feel dirty," Tim admitted. He sat up and pulled off his jacket, revealing his scarred arm. "This is what I did when I was withdrawing."

Naomi leaned forward and picked up his arm, holding it gently. She looked at it carefully, running expert fingers over the scars.

"This is what you meant when you told us that you almost died. Were you trying to commit suicide, Tim?" she asked, her voice low.

"No. Not exactly."

"What was it exactly, then?" Sam asked.

Tim dropped his head.

"Tell us, Tim," Sam said.

"I don't really want to."

"Do it anyway," Naomi said. "Help us understand, Tim. Who knows? Maybe it will help you, too."

"Okay." Tim took a deep breath and smiled when he felt Sam grasp his shoulder. It gave him the strength to look up.

"It was...really hard for me to admit that...what I was, what I almost did to myself. I had decided to stop...after Jethro accidentally took one of my pills. I was going to stop so that he wouldn't get hurt again, but it almost killed me because I didn't realize just how bad I was. The hospital didn't either. I can't explain exactly what I was thinking...but...I remember that I thought I had the solution. The perfect solution to the confession that I was an addict, that I had basically ruined my own life." Tim stopped and stared at his arm again.

"What was the solution?"

Tim managed a sad laugh. "Did I ever tell you that I bought a Ginsu knife? You know...I watched one of those stupid infomercials and I decided to buy it. They're pretty sharp." He nodded a few times. "Really sharp."

Naomi put a comforting arm around his shoulders. "Go on, Tim."

"I decided that I was going to stop being an addict...and I knew that the drugs were in my bloodstream. That meant that I had to get the drug-laden blood out of me. So I came home, took the knife and starting cutting up my arm. I wasn't thinking that I was going to die. I was thinking that this would solve everything. Right away. I could stop being an addict, could stop being that person and everything would go back to normal. It was...a mistake, but like everything else with this..." Tim closed his eyes, not wanting to cry again. "...I'll be...paying for that mistake for the rest of my life. These scars aren't going away. They'll never go away. ...and maybe some time in the future, I'll slip and fall again."

For a few minutes, Tim just sat silently, feeling his parents near, basking in that safety. Then, finally, he really understood what his problem was, why this coming end brought him no joy.

"I'm so afraid," he said, as he started to cry. "I'm so afraid that I'll...that I'll do it again, that...that one day, something will happen and I'll...I'll just...j-just lose control. I'm so scared...Mom. I'm scared that I'll be like that again." The tears overwhelmed him briefly. "I don't want to be that again. I don't want to. People are saying that I should celebrate, that I should be happy...but I'm just scared. I've spent so much of my life using drugs and...and there's all this time stretching out ahead of me. What if it happens again?"

"Oh, Tim," Sam said. "You have a choice. You _always_ have a choice. Yes, in your case, the choice is tempered by your past experience...but that doesn't mean you don't have a choice about what to do. You've fought back from an addiction that has apparently lasted half your life. You can choose to say no."

"When I was doing this to myself...I couldn't stop, not even when they found me and were trying to save me. When I tried to stop taking them the first time, my whole body was...it was out of my control. It was...I had no say. I felt powerless to do anything. I'm afraid of feeling that again."

"Tim, unless someone holds you down and _forces_ you to take the drug again, you _won't_ feel that."

Tim laughed through his tears. "I know. I know, Dad. I know that in my head, but...it's one of those things that still scares me, gives me nightmares."

"There's nothing wrong with being afraid, but you can't let it ruin your enjoyment of life," Naomi said. "Otherwise, what was the point in trying at all?"

"Sometimes I wonder."

"Try being happy. Take the chance that you _can_ be happy, that you _don't_ have to worry about that anymore."

"I want to," Tim said, taking deep gulping breaths as he tried to calm down again. "I really want to. It's just that I wake up and I'm afraid."

"I'm not saying you have to be happy instantly, but you shouldn't feel you can't be at all."

"Yeah...I know you're right...but it's hard when it's me that has to do it."

"I'm sure it is. Tim...I know you said you didn't want to celebrate, but..."

Tim wiped the tears off his cheeks. "What?"

"Why don't you invite your friends to dinner with us? Not a party, just dinner with these people who helped you so much...who _cared_ enough to help you as much as they did."

Tim wanted to say no, wanted to resist the suggestion, but he knew it was as much because of his fear as anything...and somehow, having _expressed_ that fear, acknowledged that it existed...it lessened the fear somewhat.

"Okay. Okay. I told them already that I wasn't doing anything. They've probably made other plans."

"Just try."

"Okay."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

To Tim's surprise, everyone he called said they'd come. They gathered at a restaurant out in Silver Spring and it was equally surprising that he was able to find a place that could accomodate such a large party (nine people in all, including one wheelchair). They were fairly lively, but Tim could tell that they were restraining themselves a little for his sake (especially Abby and Tony). ...but he had fun, and for a little while, he was able to forget his fear. The conversations were light, not focused on any particular topic, not forced. It could almost have been a meal on any sort of occasion. Almost. Not quite, and Tim could tell that they were all aware of the coming event. As much aware of it as he was. They all wanted it to be over.

"Would you like any company tonight, McGee?" Ziva asked, as they were heading out of the restaurant.

Tim considered...and then shook his head. "No. If you don't mind, I'd like to do this alone."

Ziva smiled. "I understand. I do not mind." She hugged him quickly. "Thank you."

Before Tim could ask what she meant, Abby was giving him a bonecrushing hug.

"Thanks for letting us be here, Tim," she said.

"You're welcome. Thanks for coming."

"Of course we came, Probie. I did have to cancel the clown, you know."

Tim laughed and extricated himself from Abby's grasp.

"I never did like clowns much."

"You sure you want to be alone tonight, Tim?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early, Dad."

"All right."

One by one, Tim bid them all farewell and then went home. When he got there, he was confronted by Jethro who demanded attention and a brief trip outdoors. Tim did so as quickly as he could. When he got back inside, he fed Jethro and sat beside him on the floor.

"I guess I'm not really alone, am I, Jethro. You're here." He smiled and scratched his ears, then got up and walked into the kitchen. As he had every night for the last eight months, he took the pill bottle out of the cupboard, shook out the pill, filled the glass with water. He took the last pill and stared at the empty bottle. He didn't need it anymore. With some satisfaction and a little bit of anxiety, he put the lid back on it and threw it into the garbage after removing and destroying the prescription information. Then, he looked at his "drug glass". He was going to throw it away as well, not wanting to see it anymore, but he stopped midmotion and looked at it again.

"It's not broken. It's not dirty. It would be a waste to toss it, wouldn't it, Jethro."

Jethro was occupied with something a lot more interesting than a glass (his food) and did not respond.

"It would," Tim said to himself.

Instead of throwing it away, he washed it out in the sink, dried it and put it back with his other glasses. It looked just like they did. Cheap glass. That's all. After a week or two, he wouldn't even know which one it was.

Somehow, it was a comforting thought, knowing that even with his guilt, worry, fear...he wouldn't know which glass he had used to take his drugs. It was all over now.

He went back and sat beside Jethro. He pet his dog until he finished eating. Then, they went into the bedroom together. Jethro got onto his dog bed while Tim changed his clothes and brushed his teeth, essentially getting ready for bed. It was early but he felt like relaxing.

After he had settled on his own bed, he turned on the TV and found a movie playing on TCM. He watched it for a while and then looked over at Jethro. He smiled.

"Come on up, Jethro. Just this once."

Jethro didn't need asking twice. He jumped up onto the bed and curled up beside his master. He was asleep pretty quickly. Then, Tim looked down at him.

"Good night, Jethro. That was the last time. No once mores. It's over. I'm clean."

That statement was not without some fear, but Tim knew he could say it honestly.

After a while, he fell asleep.

**FINIS!**


End file.
